


If it Ain’t Baroque, Don’t Fix It

by RyuGaWagaTekiGoFeckOff



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, As slow as you can get for 10-12 chapters lmfao, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, Fake-Out Make-Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jesse McCree is Joel Morricone and you can't tell me otherwise, M/M, Masturbation, OC's for Plot Advancement, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Undercover as a Couple, alcohol consumption, all the pining, so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyuGaWagaTekiGoFeckOff/pseuds/RyuGaWagaTekiGoFeckOff
Summary: The Blackmarket art scene has always been hard to combat; museum theft, replicas shoved in their place, and priceless pieces ending up in someone's private collection, never to be seen again.So when Overwatch is hired for a recon mission to stop a potential heist during the weekend premiere of an exhibit, Jesse McCree and Hanzo Shimada are forced to go undercover to get Intel.The catch?  Well, what better way to waltz around a fancy museum in LA than with your husband, of course!





	1. Van Gogh, Van Goghing, Van Gone to LA

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone catches any mistakes let me know. The work isn't BETAed, so I might have glossed over it.
> 
> Enjoy <3!

For Jesse McCree, regaining consciousness was always awkward as fuck.  Bleary eyes.  Cotton mouth.  Phantom pains where the stump of his arm met with neurosensors.  The possibility for blood and bone to be everywhere except inside his body.  Or, for a bullet or knife to be lodged someplace where it definitely shouldn’t be.  Still, the use of his five senses, however hazy they were, meant he was alive.

 

The pain that greeted him shortly thereafter was only a reassurance.

 

“Well…this could’a gone better…” McCree complained flatly as slurry of blood laced with dirt and sweat gushed down his chin.  _Just my fuckin’ luck._   He groaned inwardly, adjusting his body against the restraints of his seat.

 

This was some fine mess he had gotten himself into.

 

The six-by-six, grungy-looking room reminded him much of the holding cell he was kept in when Reyes first dragged his sorry ass in from the desert.  What he wouldn’t give to be back at HQ right about now.  He was tied to the most uncomfortable chair his ass ever touched.  Part of that was probably because his legs were bound together and his flesh arm was handcuffed to awkwardly to the side.

 

He attempted to flex the fingers of his prosthetic only to find it missing.  In his stupor, he hadn’t even noticed it was gone.  He had no idea where it was.  Or Peacekeeper.  Or his fucking hat.

 

His nose was probably broken, too, judging by the way his face pulsed with its own heartbeat of pain.  Not to mention how the flow of blood refused to subside as it gushed over his lips, dribbled over the woolen fabric of his _serape_ , soaked through to his button-up, pooled in his lap and stained the fabrics rusty red.  It was harder to breathe, even more so if he if he looked down. 

 

Swearing, he tried his best to seat himself in a more comfortable position.  The chair teetered forward on two legs before McCree threw all his weight back to try and stop it.  That earned him a one way ticket to the floor.  Crashing downward, he hit the concrete with a dull _thud_.  He groaned.  If he didn’t have a concussion before, he sure as hell had one now. 

 

The cowboy stewed.  How could he have been this…this stupid and unprepared to end up captured in the basement of hell-only-knows where?  Surrounded by and immeasurable amount of black-market thieves, no less.  He huffed a wet, humorless laugh and turned his head to spit a mouthful of blood to the concrete.

 

A hearty dose of reality hit his gut like bad medicine andbubbled up the back of his throat like bile,  _“That sixty million dollar reward’s gonna look real good in someone’s bank account when they claim my ass at the bounty office.”_   Struggling against his fetters was fruitless.  As he recalled the events that led him here, the harsh realization of his actions weighed heavily on his conscious.  He closed his eyes and let his head droop back to the cold stone beneath it. 

 

He never should have done this alone.

 

* * *

 

McCree had been on plenty of undercover missions.  Too many to count, probably.  And if you were to ask him about it, he would just smile and quip some phrase about how pretending to be someone else for a little while kept him in check.  Made him smarter.  Kept him observant.  Stuff like that.

 

But now, sitting before Winston zoning out on the brief for his first clandestine mission since the fall of Overwatch, the gunslinger couldn’t help the wave of nervousness that pulsed through his body.  He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, chewed on the butt of his cigarillo, and tried his damnedest to focus.

 

“Are you still following me, Agent McCree?” the gorilla huffed as he adjusted his glasses.

 

He flashed a lopsided grin and lied through his teeth, “’Course.  Do I look like a man who don’t pay attention?”

 

Grunting, the scientist resumed discourse.  Supposedly, Winston had received several anonymous tips from prominent museum curators and art collectors alike.  From what McCree picked up as the scientist’s explanation flowed in one ear and out the other, was that several rare, expensive, and irreplaceable pieces had been replicated and swapped out with the true ones.  Nobody had any intel on possible suspects and they were constantly going after bigger and more expensive targets.

 

Cue Overwatch.

 

Winston pulled up a file via Athena, “This is where you come in.” he pinched a location on the map which caused the projection to zoom. “America’s premiere art showing is happening this Saturday at the LACMA.”

 

McCree blinked in confusion, “The uh…come again?”

 

“LACMA stands for Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  Are you sure you were listening?” The scientist sighed and rubbed his temple, clearly frustrated.

 

“Well, I wasn’t prepared for ya t’come off soundin’ like ya had a dairy allergy.” McCree snorted and rolled his cigarillo from one side of his mouth to the other with a swipe of his tongue.

 

Winston tried and failed to repress a chuckle, “Regardless, Overwatch has been requested by LAPD to attend the preview party showings this Thursday and Friday leading up to the night of the grand reveal for the new exhibit.” He swiped a jar of peanut butter that sat precariously perched near the corner of his computer desk. “The museum staff is frantic and wants to catch the assailant before they make off with any priceless works from the collections they will have displayed, what with the influx of people visiting for the showing.” He cracked open the jar, peeking over his glasses, “However, we don’t know who we can trust.  There could be someone working for the thieves on the inside.  We can’t give up your identity to anyone, not even the curator of the museum.”

 

McCree, finally realizing his cigarillo had long extinguished, pulled an old fashioned flint lighter from the breast pocket of the flannel he was wearing.  With a _“can I smoke here?”_ look to Winston and a wave of acknowledgement from the latter, despite the look of minor displeasure from the scientist, he ignited the tip.  Taking a long drag, he let a puff of misty grey smoke tumble out of his mouth as he spoke, “So I take it that’s why ya want me on th’case then, yeah?”

 

A shrug accompanied Winston’s smug little grin as he passed the dossier across the table, “More or less.”

 

Opening the file and glancing through the mission details, McCree had to suppress his coughing fit as he sharply inhaled a lungful of smoke.  Nervousness pooled in the pit of his stomach and rose steadily to settle in his chest.

 

It had nothing to do with the _what_ ; covert ops were his specialty, this mission would probably be a cakewalk compared to ones he had in the past.  It had nothing to do with the _where_ ; apparently, Los Angeles was very pleasant this time of year.  He could use a vacation.  It had nothing to do with the _when_ ; supposedly, he was shipping out as soon as the away team returned and Lena could ready the _Orca_.  It had nothing to do with the _why_ ; international criminals were not really a big concern to him, considering his bounty and status as a member of the lawless. 

 

It did, however, have everything to do with the _who_.

 

On the front page of the dossier next to the line transcribed _Team Members Assigned_ read two names.  One he was very well-acquainted; it was his own after all.  The other however, caused an unnecessary heat to skitter across his skin and find its way to the tips of his cheeks, ears, and even the digits of his damned prosthetic.

 

His partner, his only one for this mission, was none other than Hanzo Shimada.

 

McCree forced his mouth to move, “Hey uh, Winston…” the scientist’s face made him look like he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.  Or maybe the peanut butter jar, seeing as he was fighting to swallow the large spoonful he had recently deposited in his mouth, “If uh…if I’m goin’ on this mission with Hanzo, why ain’t he in th’ brief?”

 

Winston swallowed the peanut butter thickly, “Oh, well, I was able to speak to him, though only in passing, before he left for his patrol assignment.” With a few keystrokes, he brought up the time log, “He was stationed near outpost two, but he switched with Lúcio about ten minutes ago.  He should be here any moment, actually.”

 

The gunslinger almost choked on his tongue, “Say what now?”

 

Before Winston could respond, however, the lab doors opened with a _woosh_ accompanied with a gust of hot, humid, Gibraltar air.

 

Speak of the damned devil.

 

Hanzo’s lithe frame appeared in the entranceway to the lab, features unchanging despite the friendly “hello” he received from Winston.  He stalked forward toward the duo, McCree noting the sheen of sweat that glistened off the detailed artwork along his left arm, the glint of sunlight that reflected off the silver piercing through the bridge of his nose, and how his skin looked more flushed than normal from the heat.  The archer acknowledged the two of them with a small bow before taking the seat next to McCree.

 

For having a solid fifteen years in covert ops under his belt, avoiding the shitstorm that was Geneva, and spending over six years on the run from bounty hunters by becoming one, one would think McCree could keep his cool under the scrutinizing gaze of Hanzo Shimada.  Anyone who put money on that would be shit outta luck, however.

 

Shortly after the recall, Genji had shown up on Gibraltar’s doorstep with his omnic master in tow claiming there would be one more recruit joining within the next week or so if everything went according to plan.  The archer arrived within the next forty eight hours, much to the chagrin of the older agents who knew why Genji was 90% metal and wire.  If McCree avoided him his entire first week on base, nobody said or did anything to stop him.

 

However, Genji requested to the team that Hanzo be treated with respect and, above all, kindness; the ninja had forgiven him after all and they were trying to make amends, albeit slowly.  The cyborg had sought out McCree specifically, hoping he could convince his old teammate to befriend the wayward dragon.  The cowboy refused, though relented after three days of nagging and a bottle of rather expansive booze as a bribe.

 

After the provisional “one month free trial” membership, as McCree often called it, accompanied by a slew of missions where Hanzo had proven not only his skills but the asset he was to the team, the archer was granted agent status.  Though he actively avoided everyone unless on mission detail, McCree was one persistent sonovabitch.  He studied the archer’s routine, mapped his routes across base, knew when he broke for tea, his morning run, breakfast, tea, afternoon strength training, lunch, afternoon team drills, more tea, dinner, archery practice, _even more tea,_ and his evening “mediation” with his bottle of sake alone on the craggy cliffs overlooking the sea below.

 

And when McCree started randomly appearing in all the same places Hanzo just happened to be, well he couldn’t just throw off his entire day for one cowboy, right?  Despite Hanzo’s sneering protests and McCree’s constant antagonistic attitude, it didn’t take the archer long at all to warm up to the cowboy, and the latter to the former.

 

Maybe it was the fact that the two of them meshed so well in battle, because the duo often found themselves drinking away their demons overlooking the cliffs at night after missions, out on base patrol together, requesting the same detail so they could place bets on their kill tally, or at the range running tactical drills with each other.  If anything, he and Hanzo had more in common than most of the other agents.

 

Looking back on it, it wasn’t hard to see how McCree had become smitten with him over time.  Though if anything could be determined by the way he shifted in his seat, pulled his hat lower to hide his wandering eyes, and began gnawing the butt of his cigar, one could also say he was a big chickenshit when it came to _that_ kind of stuff.  Hanzo, however, seemed just as oblivious as Winston.

 

McCree would thank God, if he were into that sort of thing.

 

Winston capped his jar of peanut butter and slid the mission details across the table, “Glad you could join us, Agent Hanzo.”

 

Stopping the papers with a swift _tap_ of his fore and middle finger, Hanzo replied evenly as he slid them to his person, “Of course.”

 

Spinning in the swivel chair, Winston turned away from the two agents and faced his computer, “Since you both understand the basics of the mission details, I figured we would jump into the specifics.” He opened several windows on the web browser and let them load.

 

“Lay it on us, chief.” McCree jested with a smile.

 

Winston continued with fervor, “You,” his eyes fell on Hanzo as he spun back around, “will be posing as an up-and-coming artist that focuses on recreating traditional pieces with a modern flair.” Before them on the holovid projector was a faux webpage, created by the genius himself, “I took the liberty of making a few fan pages and creating a few articles.  Hana enlisted the help from an artist a friend from back home to doctor a few photos with an editing program.” He proudly showcased his work on screen, “I rather like your work, Mr. Touma, if I do say so myself.” The scientist grinned cheekily.

 

The archer opened his file and flicked through the pages, finding the false credentials somewhere toward the middle.  Picking up the passport and license, he mumbled as he pocketed them, “Touma Ryuji.  I see.” he paused, “Should I consider reviewing popular artists and their styles?”

 

“That sounds like it would be beneficial.” The scientist affirmed with a nod, “The renderings I put together are mostly from the 1400’s to 1700’s, so try to focus on the Renaissance and Baroque artists like Michelangelo, Bellini, and Rembrandt.”  His focus fell to McCree.

 

The gunman shrugged, “I go in n’play bodyguard while tryin’ t’gather info.  The usual stuff.”

 

Winston shifted in his chair, “Well, uh…kind of.”

 

McCree’s eyes narrowed, “Whaddya mean, _“kinda”_?” Winston turned his attention to the web page to scroll while McCree paged through the report.  He pulled the credentials from their respective pages, let his eyes wander over the name and-, “Mr. Joel Marricone–Touma.” The words fell from his mouth, train of thought completely derailed.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

He chanced a glance at Hanzo who was currently glaring, nostrils flared and fists clenched, toward their _de facto_ operator.  Winston obliviously forged on, “Don’t think that I didn’t see that article you sent to that paper when you stopped that robbery in Japan, McCree.” He adjusted his spectacles, “It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, so that’s the identity you’ll be assuming; international traveler and freelancer extraordinaire.  And the uh…husband to Mr. Touma.”

 

The gunslinger cleared his throat, “Well, yeah but…” how was he supposed to go about _this_?  “What angle am I supposed t’work here?” He tried his best to not look sideways though he could feel Hanzo’s liquid black pupils bore into him like a drill press.

 

“After some careful deliberation,” Winston folded his hands over his hulking chest, “I figured this would be the best course of action.”

 

Hanzo asked through gritted teeth, “How so?”

 

“Let me put it to you this way.” Winston huffed, “If you, an artist that nobody has never heard of, showed up to an event like that with a bodyguard, would you be able to gain any footing in finding intel while being that inconspicuous?”

 

After a moment, McCree sighed, “Yeah, I guess we’d stick out like a sore dick at a wedding…”

 

Ignoring Hanzo’s huff if indignation, Winston agreed, “I thought so as well.  Er—I mean, not in _that_ sense, but—you know.” Flustered, he adjusted his glasses and dropped the subject.

 

Hanzo blurted out, “How long?”

 

The scientist blinked in confusion, “Uh well…the mission should only take you a few days tops, unless you manage to find out-”

 

Hanzo looked like he was desperately trying to keep it together.  He inhaled once, held it, than exhaled before continuing, “No, I meant…” he trailed off before gesturing between himself and McCree, “ _This_ …”

 

Winston quirked a brow, failing to pick up the crumbs Hanzel had laid for him to follow.  McCree, thankfully, caught on, “I think what Hanzo’s tryin’ t’ask is uh…how long have we been…together.”

 

The archer nodded, the barest hint of a blush creeping across his high cheekbones, “Indeed.”

 

Winston’s mouth formed an “o”, though he merely shrugged, “I only put on your websites that you have been together for 7 years.” He waved for Athena to drop the projection, “I thought it would be best for you both to come up with all of that on your own.” The frustrated growl from the archer seemed to go unnoticed by Winston, but not McCree.  He continued regardless, “The dropship will be returning sometime later this evening.  I suggest you both get ready to head out.  Agents McCree and Hanzo, dismissed.” Winston saluted them before returning to his PC.

 

The two rose from their chairs and made their way to the bay doors.  The rush of humid air smacked McCree in the face as they crossed the threshold.  He forgot how hot summertime in Gibraltar was.  He also forgot he was trailing Hanzo, and his longer stride accompanied with his wandering thoughts caused him to all but mow the archer down.

 

Grabbing the archer’s arm to steady him, McCree flubbed, “Shit, m’sorry Hanzo, I wasn’t payin’ attention.”

 

Hanzo righted himself with a huff, “Clearly.” He paused, took stock of McCree, then withdrew his arm from his grasp, “We should ready ourselves for the mission.” He mumbled, facing the walkway and putting several strides of distance between him and McCree.

 

The cowboy followed, “Right behind ya, sweetheart.”

 

Hanzo’s flinch was visible even from a distance, “Must you start already?”

 

Smirking, McCree caught up to him, “Just tryin’ to get in the swing a’things before we get to LA.” They round a corner as he continued, “We uh…we should prob’ly come up with some stuff on the flight, huh?”

 

Hanzo nodded once in affirmation, clearly not wanting to discuss this more than necessary.

 

McCree figured the best course of action was to let him be, “I’mma go pack.  I’ll uh...I'll meet ya in the hangar.”

 

Another barely-noticeable nod from the archer was all he got as Hanzo stalked away.

 

McCree sighed.  This mission was going to be harder than he thought.

 

\------

 

McCree had put off his physical for as long as possible, but leaving for the states meant one final once-over from everyone's favorite combat medic.  He hated the medical ward.  Angela’s constant nagging, poking, and prodding he could deal with; it came with the job and that was just something he came to terms with long ago.  But whenever he crossed the threshold to her domain, it reminded him of all the times he landed himself in one of the beds.  Of the times he was forced off the roster because he thought he was invincible.  Of how many times it had come close to proving just how much he wasn’t.

 

A short glance down to the dulling grey metal of his left arm only assured this.

 

The layout of the floor was still the same as it had always been.  Angela had stuck Jesse in the first room, the one with the window that overlooked the ocean and had a view of the lighthouse, the room with the lone, oddball black tile amongst a sea of speckled white taken from the set used to floor the kitchen, the room with spattered stains on the ceiling that may or may not have been blood.  It was also the room the good doctor could keep an eye on patients with a flight risk in her peripheral vision  Back before the fall of Geneva, this room was always considered, in her words, Jesse’s Personal Quarters, mostly because when he crash landed himself in the med bay, nine-out-of-ten times it was a guarantee two day recovery stint.  One that McCree would, all nine out of those ten times, try to escape.

 

As McCree shifted on the exam table and stared at the staunch white walls, his eyes wandered to the larger area beyond the threshold of the door.  Not much had changed.  Winston had kept the place pretty clean even though Angela had been gone since the disaster in Switzerland.  Little bottles of pills and liquids lined the metal shelving above a cluttered desk with several mugs of what McCree presumed to be tea, probably old and left forgotten from late nights in the lab.

 

The picture frames on the wall behind her desk were the only real color in the otherwise whitewashed room, aside from McCree’s vibrant _serape_ that lay on the table behind him.  He was in a handful of them, the team much younger and happier with a more positive outlook on the world.  He wondered when that all fell apart.

 

The soft _click-clack_ of heels tore his attention away.

 

Dr. Zeigler was, in his opinion, one of the most wonderful people on this entire plant.  She was intelligent, kind, worldly, and compassionate.  She was opinionated and never afraid to speak her mind or stand up for what was right.  And for a woman the same age as McCree, she was pretty damn good looking.  A literal angel, if anyone ever asked him.  Not to mention, she tolerated McCree’s shameless flirting, even if he meant nothing by it.  Damn did he miss torturing Genji by hitting on Angie.  It brought a smile to his lips.

 

He chuckled as she grabbed a clipboard from the corner of her desk.

 

“Hmm?” the good doctor quirked a brow as her eyes glossed over the chart, “And what, may I ask, is so funny?”

 

McCree shrugged, his smile fond, “Just thinking ‘bout the ol’ days, that’s all.”

 

Angela blinked and took a second to process the information as she gently set the clipboard back down, “What brought about all of this?” She gestured to her front, a little motion that said _“shirt off, please.”_

 

McCree complied in silence, plucking the button of his well-worn flannel open one by one, “It’s just…” he trailed off, eyes flittering around before finding hers again, “I can’t believe we’re back here is all.  S’almost like we never left.”

 

Angela regarded him momentarily before stepping forward, eyes cast downward, “A lot of ghosts walk these hallways.” She mumbled.

 

The cowboy agreed, “Yeah.” He huffed solemnly, “Some couldn’t even bother t’stay dead.”

 

The brief silence that fell between the two of them was cut short by Mercy’s long sigh. “Well, you know what they say,” She pulled her stethoscope from its place around her neck, tucking the rubber tips inside her ears, “Ghosts that have not passed on are souls with unfinished business.” She pressed the icy cold metal to McCree’s chest

 

He almost jumped off the table, “God dammit woman, give a man some warnin’!” he shivered as goosebumps rolled across his skin. “Are ya tryin’ t’give me a heart attack?”

 

She ignored him, slid the device across his chest, and tutted as she withdrew, “You will not have to worry about me doing it.  If you continue smoking, I am sure that will put at least one of your feet in the grave.” She stated rather grimly.

 

His grin was wicked, “Aw, still worried about me, doc?”

 

She rolled her eyes, “My medicine cannot fix everything, Jesse.  You know this.”

 

“Well, when it’s my time I can’t change that.  I can only cheat death so long, y’know?” he shrugged.

 

Angela pursed her lips, unamused, “Yes, well, I will do my best to stall that for as long as possible.”

 

“I like the sound’a that.” The cowboy chuckled.

 

The doctor went through the short routine of the physical exam; Angela checked his pulse, temperature, and blood pressure first and foremost.  She measured his reflexes, and shone the brightest light he ever saw in his eyes, mouth and ears.  She made him follow her finger with his eyes, touch his finger to his nose, and wiggle his digits.  Everything minor seemed to check out, and he was grateful the doctor didn’t make him run on the treadmill or stretch while hooked up to anything.  He didn’t need that kind of embarrassment today.

 

The medic grabbed the chart again and flipped through the pages.  Stopping halfway through, she looked up to address McCree, “The diagnostics on your bloodwork showed no signs of abnormality.” Her eyes flitted back to the clipboard, “Even after all these years, almost ninety-eight percent of the nanites that synch with my Caduceus technology are still active in your blood stream.” She flipped the pages again, this time to the very back. “Any issues with this?” her free hand slipped to the wrist of his prosthetic and she lifted it.

 

He shrugged, “Nothin’ outta t’usual doc.  Still get phantom pains every now n’ again, but it’s held up pretty damn good all these years, considerin’.” He brought his hand eye-level and wiggled his fingers, Angela jotting down a few notes on her chart.

 

She clicked her tongue, “How long has it been since it has gotten proper maintenance?”

 

McCree chewed his lip for a second, “Honestly, I can’t remember.  Least six years, I reckon.”

 

“As I expected.” Leveling him with a hard gaze, she dropped her hands from his arm, “I know you are not going to like this, but I want to take it off and make sure everything is working properly.  If anything needs done, we can have Tӧrbjorn look at it when you return.”  She waltzed over to the desk and dropped the clipboard, turning her attention to finding some tools.

 

“Alright.” The cowboy agreed though his stomach flopped.

 

It had been years since the accident that caused the loss of his left limb.  To be honest, it was more of a blur than anything at this point; loosing that much blood in an active war-zone and living to tell the tale was a feat in itself.  Trying to remember every last detail was asking a bit too much.  A gently pressure on his bicep brought him out of his thoughts.

 

Mercy had gloved fingers affixed to the clasps on the ring where metal met flesh.  She smiled gently, “May I?”

 

He huffed a laugh, “Be m’guest, doc.”

 

If McCree could explain the feeling of having that damned prosthetic detached, he wouldn’t describe it as a “feeling” at all.  The best example he could give, however, was like the time he and Genji ended up dicking around in a zero gravity simulator back in his Blackwatch days after setting the G-force calibration too high.  Trying to force blood back into an otherwise numb, lifeless limb was the only thing, he thought, seamed akin to neurosensors detaching from nerves.  It really didn’t feel like anything was there, because in all actuality, it wasn’t.

 

The prosthetic looked awkward when not attached to his bicep.  He couldn’t help but snort; it was obnoxious as hell and something totally McCree.  Had he ever thanked Tӧrbjorn and Angela properly for that thing all those years ago?  Mercy didn’t even seem to notice him as she laid the arm on a bulky-looking machine from the corner of the room.  She hooked up a few of the sensors to connection points and pressed a few buttons.  The machine whirred to life.

 

Angela watched as numbers ticked across the screen.  She jotted a few down, making small talk in the process, “So Winston is sending you to LA, _ja_?”

 

Seeing the opportunity, he seized it, “What’sa matter doc?  Need a vacation?”

 

In a very matter-of-fact tone, she shot him a soft smile, “I will take a vacation when I’m dead, Jesse.”

 

The short silence that followed was broken by McCree’s obnoxious laughter.  Angela chased it, covering her mouth with her hand, “Damn Angie, you’ve been hanging around Gengi too much.”

 

Turning her attention back to the machine, she snorted, “Actually, if you can believe it, that one came from a certain Helix Security Chief.”

 

Excitedly, McCree leaned forward on his seat, “You heard from Fareeha?  How’s my girl doin’?”

 

Mercy shrugged, punched a few buttons on the screen, let the printer below the clunky machine begin to spit paper, “Truthfully, I am not very sure.  We could not speak very long, but she said the soldiers under her command would help Overwatch in any way they could, so long as innocent lives were not put in danger.”

 

“That’s my girl.” The cowboy beamed.

 

“Do you…” Angela paused for a second, held his gaze, let it fall to the side, “Do you believe what we are doing is just?  That the recall will help people?” she searched his face as the printer churned out the last of the paper.

 

“Wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.” The gunslinger smiled, “Justice ain’t gonna dispense itself, yanno.”

 

Mercy nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips, “I see…” she glossed over the length of printed diagnostics, folding them up as she went along, “Well, it seems to be in working order, though maybe I can have Tӧrbjorn take a look at this when he has a moment.” She circled several spots along the chart in red ink, “It looks like there is very minute delay between brain impulse and movement.  We may be able to put in an order for an upgrade.”

 

McCree pouted, “Aw, c’mon Angie, I _finally_ broke that one in and you want me to get rid of it?”

 

Mercy rolled her eyes, “It will look and feel exactly the same, Jesse.”

 

“Well in that case,” he jested good-naturedly, “Sound like a plan, doc.” He slid off the table and grabbed the analysis, “I’m sure y’all can do…whatever it is you’ll do with this.” He chuckled and turned it upside-down mockingly.

 

She snatched it back, “You are the worst patient, Jesse McCree.”

 

“Did I _finally_ beat Genji?” he goaded.

 

Angela powered the machine down and slipped the papers into the clipboard for future reference, “You are both equally terrible at listening to my advice and trying my patience,” McCree snorted at that, “But I still love you both dearly.” Her grin was gentle and easy.

 

Snatching his hat from his head, he placed it over his heart, “I’m flattered, darlin’.” He leaned closer, slightly off balance without his left arm, “Why, would ya mind accompanying me to the—”

 

She snatched his hat, placed it on his head, and shoved him playfully away with the same gentle smile, “No.”

 

He barked a single laugh, “Ya didn’t even let me ask, Ang!”

 

“Hmm…” she tapped her pointer finger on her chin in mock thought, “If you let me reattach your prosthetic, _maybe_ I will consider…whatever it is.  How does that sound?”

 

“Ya drive a hard bargain, but I suppose I’ll have’ta accept it.” McCree tutted.

 

The doctor beckoned him over to a chair that sat level with the desk.  Where detaching the prosthetic felt a lot like nothing, reattaching it was a whole lot of something.  It was more than just pain, at least it was to McCree.  It felt like his arm, the ghost of it, was being boiled, frozen, electrocuted, crushed, and severed all in one.  But nothing was really there to feel.  It made no fucking sense, but it hurt like a bitch.

 

Mercy settled the prosthetic level with the connective sides of McCree’s flesh arm.  She gazed up at him, “Ready?”

 

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, “As I’ll ever be, doc.”

 

He forced his eyes anywhere but down as she clicked the interlocking pieces into place.  The patterns on the ceiling were a good distraction as any as she connected the final sensor, and the full body shock jolted through McCree like he touched a livewire.  He barely even registered her apologies.  It would take a little while.

 

It always did.

 

\------

 

Four hours, three suitcases, two concealed weapons, and one guarantee of jetlag later, McCree and Hanzo were cruising a comfortable 7 miles above sea level.  Air travel was, mostly, not one of McCree’s favorite past times, especially considering the fact he had to pack away his usual attire for a pair of fitted khakis and a casual flannel shirt.  Winston wouldn’t even let him wear his hat, but he would be damned if the man tried to take his boots away, even if they didn’t have the spurs.  He ran two fingers along the collar of his shirt.  The clothing wasn’t the only reason he was restless.

 

In the seat next to him, Hanzo was staring down at his data pad with his chin resting lazily in his palm.  _Probably researchin’ notable pieces_ , if McCree could venture a guess.  He had to force himself to look away.  He was wont to admit he often stole glances at Hanzo I-always-have-my-chest-out Shimada when training or on op duty, but this was torture.  He had never really saw the man in casual clothes, but if the fitted black jeans and tight maroon V-neck had anything to say about Hanzo’s physique, it was that McCree needed to hit the gym more.

 

McCree cleared his throat, “So…” his partner side eyed him in acknowledgement, “Reckon we should come up with our backstory?”

 

Hanzo turned, paused, regarded him for a moment, “It is pertinent to the mission, I suppose.” He pulled up the notepad app and placed it gently on his lap.

 

“Yeah, I guess.” The gunslinger huffed nervously.

 

The mere seconds of silence that followed had been deafening.  So much so, McCree missed most of Hanzo’s question when he finally broke it, “—to know each other?

 

“M’sorry, what?” he wheezed out a little too fast for his own liking.

 

The archer’s eyes narrowed, “If you want to discuss this so badly, could you at least attempt to pay attention?”

 

McCree, in an attempt to feign fatigue for nervousness, stretched his arms over his head and tried to pull his non-existent hat over his eyes, “Sorry darlin’, m’just tired is all.”

 

“I see…” Hanzo’s eyes raked over him once, “I merely asked if you had any input on how we met.”

 

McCree shrugged, “Mmm…coffee shop?”

 

“That is…much too cliché.” His partner grumbled.

 

The gunslinger smiled lazily, “What, is sayin’ we fell in love over lattes too much?” he chuckled, “I feel like hangin’ out in cafés is something artists and writers like to do, is all.”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes, head tilting away to hide the fine dusting of rose on his cheeks from the gunslinger. “Fine.” He typed the information in the document, “Where did we meet?”

 

McCree blinked, “Uh…the café?”

 

“Yes, but _where_ was the café, as in what city and country?  What were we doing there?” Hanzo griped in exasperation.

 

“Oh, uh…” McCree swallowed.  He could have given Hanzo a complete detailed story of how they met.  He had only dreamed about meeting him another life several hundred times already.  In a café.  Or the park.  Looking for pets in a pet store.  Buying sweets in a bakery.  Getting something for a coworker in a flower shop.  Browsing books in a library.  Literally everything.

 

Any other life, any other hand aside from those they had been dealt; one man weighed down with the betrayal and near death of his family, the other born with a gun in his hand and enough blood on his conscious to drown him.  McCree often wondered what it would have been like to romance someone, go on dates with someone, fall in love with someone, as opposed to one night stands where he would rob his partner blind after they passed out and be miles away before they woke up.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he spaced out, still wondering.

 

But before he could suggest anything, however, the overhead comm pinged.  Athena’s logo appeared on the dropdown holovid screen, signaling an incoming call from base.  Saved by the bell.  Literally.

 

McCree shot up to press the “accept” button, “I got it.”

 

Before them, Genji’s sleek frame came into view, “Hello brother, McCree.” He flashed two metallic fingers up for peace, “How is your flight?”

 

McCree shrugged, “Borin’, as usual.  How was Greece?  Y’all get any leads for us?”

 

If the cowboy knew any better, Genji was smirking behind that mask, “That is exactly why I called.” The low _ding_ from Hanzo’s tablet signaled incoming mail, “I just sent you some photographs of the assailant from security footage Hana and I have been going through.”

 

Hanzo pulled up the file, “These are…they look…” He squinted at the grainy photos.

 

“Bad, I know.” The ninja waved him off, “It is the best we could do for now, we still have at least four days’ worth of material to watch.” He angled the camera differently revealing a tired, yet smiling Hana behind him, “We will send more as-”

 

The camera shook violently and Genji cursed.  Hana’s face came into focus shortly thereafter, “You guys better catch these douchebags out there or I’m flying to LA to look for them myself!” she screeched, “I had to cancel a stream to do this.  Do you know how upset my fans are?!”

 

McCree saluted her with a laugh, “Yes ma’am!  Ol’ Joel and Ryuji got ya covered!”

 

“Don’t you mean Mr. and Mr. Marricone–Touma?” she smirked.

 

The brief lapse in conversation that followed was broken by Genji’s flabbergasted, albeit amused, “ _What?_ ”

 

Hanzo desperately tried to cut the conversation short, “We will await further evidence from your end, we must-”

 

The projection wobbled again as Genji gained control of the camera, “I cannot believe Winston _actually_ went through with that idea!”

 

The elder Shimada narrowed his eyes, “And who, may I ask, suggested this idea to Winston?”

 

Hana’s cackles were drowned out by Genji’s word vomit, “Oh would you look at the time, Hana and I still have much to do!  We will speak soon, brother!” he waved to the cowboy, “Later, McCree!”

 

Before Hanzo could form a reply, the screen cut to blue to reveal Athena’s spinning logo.

 

The cowboy muttered, “Leave it to the gremlin and green devil to pitch this t’Winston.”

 

Hanzo scoffed, “Leave it to Winston to actually entertain the idea.”

 

McCree reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and sighed, “Nothin’ we can do about it now.” He cracked one open to gaze up at Hanzo, “Now, you were sayin’ somethin’ about where we met?”

 

If McCree wasn’t so tired, he would have thought Hanzo was blushing, “Yes, if you are open to some suggestions…”

 

The gunslinger smiled, “Darlin’, I’m all ears.”


	2. Two Baroque Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it has taken me eighty-four years to update guys. Between searching for a new job, actually managing to land one for what I went to school for in my undergrad/master’s studies, trying to quit my old one without being a douche and staying an extra month, and my S/O of 3 years breaking up with me over text message, MY LIFE HAS BEEN A MESS LMFAO. But now that things have settled down I’ll be able to write a little faster. I’m also projecting my misery and woe into this a little so…yeah, there’s that.
> 
> And I will NEVER stop with the punny titles!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The dropship touched down atop an old abandoned carpark close to 6pm.  Despite the nine hour time difference, flying “backward” at Mach 2 put them in Los Angeles a little over a day before the show opening.  It also caused some serious jet lag.  Athena’s auto piloting system kicked on and raised the shuttle off the cracking concrete.  McCree was more than thankful; he wasn’t exactly sure how the roof hadn’t collapsed with all the extra weight.

 

McCree lead the way to a lone door, presumably to a staircase to the ground floor.  The two agents trudged from their landing zone to the coordinates of their hotel.  The air was the sticky kind of humid that settled somewhere deep in one’s lungs.  This was why McCree preferred the desert.  At least the walk wasn’t too far. 

 

In no time, the duo found their lodging; a rather large, fancy hotel in the middle of a busy downtown street.  If McCree were still in Blackwatch, he would be calling Winston up screaming “ _What the fuck were you thinking?!”_

 

But this wasn’t Blackwatch.

 

And now that he thought about it, hiding in plain sight was probably a good idea as any.  As they crossed the threshold of _The Chestnut Inn_ , McCree took stock of the lobby; he was surrounded by plush chairs, decorative paintings, warm neutral carpets and walls, and a middle-aged woman in obnoxious bejeweled spectacles behind the boxy desk.  Hanzo approached it with McCree in tow.

 

He cleared his throat to get the clerk’s attention, “Excuse me.”

 

The spectacled lady adjusted her frames, “Can I help you?”

 

“We have a reservation.”

 

“Name?”

 

“It will either be under Touma or Marricone, possibly both.” Hanzo stated evenly.

 

Maybe it was the tiredness setting in, but McCree swore she was typing slower than a molasses spill on Christmas Eve.  Her eyes flashed back to the two of them, “Can you spell that?”

 

McCree stepped forward, deeming it fit to take over before Hanzo drew his concealed bow and made her a human pincushion, “Might be under Marricone-Touma, that’s M-A-R-R-I—”

 

The lady exclaimed, “Ah, here it is!” she turned to a wall of boxes, probably keycard holders.  She withdrew a pair from one, “There you are, room 307.”

 

“Sorry, to trouble ya ma’am, even after seven years we still tend t’forget our combined last name.” his prosthetic hand found its way to the small of Hanzo’s back.

 

McCree half expected the archer to flinch away, but Hanzo, the bastard, actually _leaned into him_.  What he wouldn’t give for his arm to be flesh and bone right about now and not just a bundle of metal laced with neuro sensors.  The elder Shimada took the cards with a thin, wry smile.  His version of a “thank you.”

 

The clerk returned a more full-bodied grin, one with more teeth and gums, “Oh no trouble at all, dears!  You two look very happy together.”

 

McCree’s grip on Hanzo’s waist tightened a fraction, “Don’cha know it!”

 

Hanzo turned and crossed his arm over McCree’s chest, sending his heartrate into double-time, “Yes, I assure you.”

 

The clerk giggled and clapped her bony hands together, “You two are so sweet!”

 

McCree reached for his hat only to remember it was packed away in his suitcase.  He smoothed his humidity-fried locks down and grinned, “Thank y’kindly, ma’am.”

 

“Of course!  To get to the stairs and elevator, take the hallway all the way to the end.  We also have complimentary breakfast between 8am to 10am.  Your keys also allow you to access the pool and recreational fitness areas, both located on this floor.” The attendant smiled warmly, “Enjoy your stay here at _The Chestnut Inn_.”

 

Not wanting to get wrapped up in further conversation, the two grabbed their suitcases and made for the elevators.  McCree tried his best to not think about how he grew cold after the sudden lack of contact.  Hanzo, however, kept his neutral expression all the way to the third floor.  The cowboy sighed inwardly.  He knew better than to get his hopes up.

 

Room 307 was probably the nicest place he ever had the courtesy of staying on a mission.  Or at the very least it wasn’t nearly as seedy as most of his other bygone posts.  The carpet was plush and a very clean-looking beige.  The bathroom sported both a shower and a tub, the latter big enough to house a party of four.  The small kitchenette held a stove, microwave, a two-man table with dual chairs, and a shoddy little coffee pot.  The ornate gold wall décor matched the patterned sheets on the-

 

“There’s only one bed.” McCree blurted out in a tired stupor as he eyed the lone full-sized mattress in the center of the room.

 

“I am well aware.” Hanzo pushed past him, luggage in tow.  He paused, looked around, let his luggage fall flat.  He mouthed silently to McCree, _“Should we secure the room?”_

 

“Wouldn’t hurt…” the cowboy’s low mumble trailed off.

 

After a thorough, albeit quick, sweep of the room, Hanzo deemed it appropriate to converse, “Tomorrow is the first day of the exhibit.” He pulled up the site on his data pad and plopped down on the edge of the mattress, “Winston has two tickets waiting for us at the venue.”

 

McCree stifled a yawn, “Think we should do a little recon beforehand?”

 

Hanzo shook his head, “With all of the publicity surrounding the event, it is doubtful we would be able to find anything useful.” He leveled his gaze at McCree, “And the last thing I want is a repeat of the Dorado mission.”

 

Chuckling, the gunslinger sprawled out next to him, “Aw, c’mon, ya can’t hang that over my head forever.” He folded his hands behind his head as he leaned back.

 

The archer glared down at him, “I most certainly can.”

 

“Ya mean to tell me that I, Jesse McCree, ignored direct orders t’retreat?” McCree met Hanzo’s glare with kind eyes.  He put his hand over his chest, feigning ignorance, “That I, Jesse McCree, decided to play hero t’save a few civilian lives, and yers?”

 

“Yes, and you almost got yourself killed and the rest of the agents arrested.” Hanzo admonished. “Had Agent Tracer not picked us up when she did, we would probably be rotting away in maximum security prison.”

 

“Hey, it was yer first real mission.  Had t’make sure ya could handle a little change in plans.” McCree jested, “’Sides, I was the one who almost ended up like Swiss cheese, not you.”

 

“If you could refrain from changing the plans and avoid getting shot this mission, I would be most appreciative.” The archer deadpanned.

 

“Aw, are y’worried ‘bout lil’ ol’ me, sweet- _murph_!” the dragon cut him off with a pillow pressed firmly over his face.

 

McCree fought Hanzo off as he rose from the mattress, “It is getting later and we are jet lagged.” He strode toward his suitcase and retrieved toiletry items and a change of clothes, “We should rest.”

 

McCree flipped the pillow off his face “I uh… I’ll take the floor” the outlaw’s eyes flittered from the bed to Hanzo’s lithe frame, “Wouldn’t want ya t’go a night without yer beauty sleep.”

 

He took Hanzo’s grunt as he closed the door to the bathroom as a _be my guest_ sort of answer.  Slipping off the bed and rifling through his suitcase for a pair of boxers, McCree figured he would freshen up after him.

 

McCree stripped down to his briefs, draped his clothes on one of the kitchen chairs, and slunk back to the bed.  He heard water filling the sink.  He had a couple minutes to rest on the bed before moving to the floor.  _“Just a few,”_ he thought sleepily as he reclined on the plush mattress and pulled the covers over his body.  He was out before he even realized.

 

\------

 

Something about being on the run for six years made every ounce of the little things count.  A decent meal, a roof over his head, and a lumpy mattress as opposed to a cold stretch of dirt were, in truth, enough to get him by until his dying day.  Still, he would take the little luxuries when he had the opportunity.

 

The fuzzyheaded feeling of waking up lingered as McCree stretched his legs out, fighting his best to ignore the hardness growing between his legs.  He flexed his feet (ten toes, accounted for), wiggled his fingers (five flesh, five prosthetic, as per usual), and rolled his neck (which produced several loud pops).  Despite wanting to laze about and avoid the rest of the world for another hour or two, the continental breakfast seemed like a good idea.  McCree curled in on himself and buried his face into the downy pillow.  It was a great idea if the bed wasn’t so damn—

 

_The bed._

 

Resisting the urge to bolt upright, he rolled flat on his back while silently mouthing a mantra of _“Holyshitholyshitholyshit,”_ over and over.  He must have passed out on the mattress while Hanzo was in the bathroom, no doubt forcing the man to sleep on the floor.  He palmed his face with his flesh hand and let out a groan that was more breathy than anything.  McCree could only imagine how pissed off Hanzo was going to be.  He would have to apologize, he thought as he closed his eyes and rolled toward the middle of the bed.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” was all McCree managed to gasp at the sight before him.

 

Being nose-to-nose with a man shouldn’t have riled him up so much.  But this man was Hanzo Shimada.  His lips were parted ever so slightly, long even breaths sighing past the bow of his lips.  McCree had never seen his face so relaxed, even when he was under the influence of a bottle of _sake_.  It was a rare sight to see him with his top knot down, but there it was spilling an inky curtain of hair over his face and neck.  McCree was so close he could almost make out his reflection in the shiny round balls at the ends of the barbell between the archer’s nose.  The dragon’s tail on his shoulder twitched ever so slightly as Hanzo shifted in his sleep

 

The sight sent a rush of blood straight through McCree’s body right to his dick.  He hissed involuntary and clamped his mouth shut, keeping focus on Hanzo’s face as the man shifted.  The last thing he wanted to do was be caught blatantly staring at the object of his affections while he slept, with a hard-on no less.  As much as he wanted to stay under the covers with Hanzo in such close proximity, he had to try and get out while he could.

 

McCree scooted backwards toward the edge of the mattress, turned away from Hanzo, gently lifted the covers, and—

 

“McCree?” Hanzo’s gravelly, sleep mussed voice washed over him.

 

_“God damn,”_ was the only thing McCree’s fizzled-out brain could muster as he meekly turned to face the archer, one glossy, half lidded eye peeking through the waterfall of ink, “Uh…mornin’, darlin’.” He offered a lazy two-finger salute and a shy grin, “Sorry ‘bout passin out here after promisin’ you the bed.”

 

Hanzo waved him off nonchalantly as he brushed his hair from his face, “I thought it best to not disturb you.  There was enough room for both of us to rest comfortably after all.” he grunted, stretched out, rolled his shoulders, “What time is it?”

 

“Little past eight, I think.” The gunslinger managed to utter, desperately trying not to stare and work himself up; the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the anatomy growing harder between his thighs with each passing second.

 

Hanzo’s ever-tired eyes raked over his frame, “It is strange to see you awake before noon, cowboy.” His lips quirked into a thin, wry, barely-there smile, “Will I find that you have quit smoking those awful cigars and thrown your hat in the trash bin come later today?”

 

That smirk shot liquid fire through McCree’s veins, straight to his already throbbing member.  He suppressed the twitch with a little jostle of the blankets.  His chortle sounded a little more like he was choking, “Aw, c’mon, why ya gotta drag me this early?”

 

“Because you supply me with so much ammunition.” the elder Shimada propped his head on his hand, letting the blanket fall off his bare—

 

_“Jesus Christ, he ain’t wearin’ a shirt,”_ was all McCree’s already fried brain registered as Hanzo rolled to completely face the gunslinger.  The thin cotton sheet sloughed off his skin fluidly to reveal thick pectoral muscles that dipped down to the washboard of his abdomen.  McCree had to tear his eyes away before he was caught and before he began to outright moan.  If he didn’t abort now, he was bound to end up in a particularly difficult situation to explain.

 

Playing off the archer’s banter, McCree decided to shift his focus, “Speakin’ of ammunition, have y’got anythin’ else from Genji?”

 

“Not since we spoke yesterday.”

 

“Figures.” The cowboy huffed, watching as the archer threw off the covers and—

 

_“Holy fuck,”_ McCree had officially short circuited.  As Hanzo pulled his hair atop his head to begin his morning routine, he was completely oblivious to the man melting into a mental breakdown behind him.  Hanzo was solid muscle, a gorgeous mass of chiseled sinew under flawless alabaster flesh.  McCree would be lying if he didn’t steal glances at him while together at the range, where the archer would often practice in formfitting clothing rather than his _gi_.

 

But this?

 

This was fucking torture.

 

Hanzo had gone to bed in nothing but a pair of thin, tight— _holy shit, were those tight_ —briefs, McCree having to purse his lips together to forgo a whistle of approval.  He tried his best to smother the thoughts that raced through his mind, thankful Hanzo’s sixth sense for being watched hadn’t caused him to round on the gunslinger and pin him to the mattress.

 

McCree probably wouldn’t have minded that last part though.

 

He hadn’t realized how long he had been frozen in the same position; Hanzo wasn’t even in the room anymore.  The sound of the toilet flushing followed by running water had brought him out of his daze.  McCree drug a hand over his face, slapped his cheeks twice.   _“Snap out of it,”_ he demanded.  His cock, on the other hand, blatantly ignored him with another spine-tingling throb.  He almost whimpered.

 

The archer reemerged seconds later and padded toward his suitcase, casually calling over his shoulder, “I am going to make use of the facility downstairs for a morning run.” He pulled a pair of compression shorts up his thighs, neglecting to find a shirt in exchange for lacing up a pair of sneakers, “I will be back to freshen up before breakfast.”

 

McCree nodded once, his throat too dry to speak.

 

“I will need to shower.” Grabbing his data pad, he made for the exit, “That means you should do so before I return.” He briskly added before disappearing behind through the door.

 

As soon as the coast was clear, McCree leapt to the bathroom in two quick bounds.  Fumbling with the lock and flooding with relief when he heard the tumblers click, he leaned his forehead against the door and exhaled a shaky breath.  He palmed himself once through the fabric of his boxers and shuddered.

 

He didn’t have time to waste.

 

As good as a relaxing soak in the giant bathtub sounded, he knew better.  He kicked off his boxers, found a suitable water temperature after flicking the spigot on, and clambered into the stall.  What he should have done was doused himself in cold water.  Chased the lingering arousal from his body with an icy cold shock to his system.  Thought with the head atop his shoulders instead of the one between his legs.

 

But this was McCree after all.

 

Dunking his head under the scalding stream of water sent his already flaming skin into overdrive.  It didn’t take much time, embarrassingly short for him if he were to admit it to himself.  But his own debauched imagination coupled with the display Hanzo had put on this morning was enough to make quick work of the situation.  It wasn’t the first time he came envisioning that the hand he was fucking into was the archer, but almost all of the aforementioned occasions were usually brought on by too much alcohol and an extreme lack of impulse control.  The choked out little gasp McCree emitted as his orgasm blindsided him was drowned out by the gentle hiss of the shower.

 

McCree washed away the evidence and turned the knob until he was sure frost was forming on his skin.

 

\-----

 

LA was, to McCree, too loud, too cramped, and much too overpopulated for his liking.  Despite his talkative nature, he preferred solitude with the option to go find social interaction if he got too lonely.  The elbow he received to the side as a businessman all but shoved him to the ground was plenty to solidify this.

 

He and Hanzo were curbside attempting to hail a hovercab to the LACMA for a bit of preemptive surveillance.  The faux camera bag lined with bugs, mini cams, and an infrared camera engineered by Winston rattled as the gunslinger waved to summon a passing yellow taxi.  It drove right past him without so much as slowing down.

 

“Goddamn it.” The gunslinger griped.  He went to reach for his hat only to remember it was back somewhere in their room and his hair was gelled and styled thanks to the preening of one Hanzo Shimada.

 

Speaking of…

 

McCree side eyed the man in question.  Where Mr. Marricone exuded a more rugged, outdoorsy, lumberjack-esque persona, what with his checkered red and black flannel, khakis, cowboy boots and tousled locks, Mr. Touma looked more like a city man.  Hanzo’s choice of attire for the first day was a pair of skin-stretched black pants paired with a dark blue button up.  McCree had never seen the man without the metallic leg guards, but here he stood in a pair of black high-top Chuck Taylor’s.  The man even went a step further and procured a pair of faux box-framed glasses that made him look more knowledgeable and distinguished.  And instead of the gold _seigaiha_ printed scarf, he opted to tie his topknot back with a simple blue hairband that played off his current attire. 

 

They were a damn fine couple if McCree did say so himself.

 

_Couple_ , echoed the little voice in the back of his mind.  The thumb of his right hand found his base of his ring finger.  On it was a little sliver of gold-plated metal no more than six millimeters wide, a fake ring to showcase their even faker relationship.  He had complained that is wasn’t on the correct hand, but Hanzo made a good point in asking what would happen if it slid off without him noticing.  Still, as McCree’s calloused digit twisted the band around his finger, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if the matching one on Hanzo’s left hand was _real_.

 

The gunslinger sighed inwardly.  Missions like this tended to put him between a rock and a hard place.  Whereas he clearly knew the intent of his advances, Hanzo never would.  He finally got the man to open up a little, to him as well as the rest of the team.  There was no way he was going to let his heart—or his dick, for that matter—ruin the companionship with the first real friend he had in hell only knew how long.

 

The smooth rustling of fabric accompanied by a pressure on his right arm snapped him back to reality and forced him to drop his thumb from its position on the ring.

 

Hanzo had threaded his arm through the teapot handle of his own.  It seemed so nonchalant, so natural, McCree had almost missed it.  As Hanzo took a step closer into his personal bubble, McCree played off the rising blush on the stifling heat.  His partner stated evenly,

 

“Having difficulties?” he asked, looking up through the little space between his fake glasses.

 

_“Smug bastard,”_ McCree thought before he scoffed, “What’s a man gotta do t’get a cab ‘round here?  Dance naked in the middle of the damn road?”

 

Hanzo’s cool expression faltered, the hint of a smile peeking through, “I do not think that would be wise…” he gave his partner a cursory glance before raising his arm and literally stepping into oncoming traffic, “I feel as though sunburn would be most uncomfortable on your ass.”

 

“Did…did y’just make a joke?” McCree stuttered as a bright yellow hovercab slowed to a halt before them.  The curbside door opened automatically with a soft mechanical whirr.

 

“A joke? Me?” Smirking, Hanzo shoved him down into the seat and scooted inside next to him, “I would do no such thing.” He teased, slipping his arm from around his to gently pat his hand.

 

McCree instinctively flipped his hand over and tangled their fingers together, the rings sliding together with a soft _click_.  _“Ah,”_ he thought as his flesh hand twitched toward the contact, _“must be in “husband” mode.”_

 

The driver, an omnic wearing a uniform, turned to the backseat, “Good morning, my name is Allen.  Where would you like to go?”

 

Shifting the faux camera bag to the floor, McCree stated, “We’re lookin’ ta get to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

 

“Ah, are you both here for the exhibit then?” Allen asked gently as he pulled into traffic and set the cab’s speed to autopilot.

 

“Y’could say that.”

 

Hanzo’s grip on his digits turned deathlike, “What my husband means to say is _yes_.” He cast a half-chilled look to McCree who responded with a little smile accompanied by an eye-roll, “Some are of my works will be on display.”

 

“How wonderful!” it was uncanny how Zenyatta-like the omnic’s enthusiasm sounded, “It is supposed to be a lovely exhibit.  The city has been abuzz for months.”

 

“Will you be able to see it?”

 

“Unfortunately, no.” Allen’s cybernetic shoulder’s seemed to slump, “I am scheduled to work most of the week due to the sheer number of people in town for the event.” he glanced over his shoulder, “Omnic members of certain workforces, such as mine, are often asked to do a little bit more when large influxes of people overtake areas for events such as this.”

 

McCree tutted, “Aw, that’s a shame.”

 

“It really is not a problem.” He chuckled lightly, “Unlike you, I do not need to sleep.  I can operate for days without needing a break, and I can cover other worker’s shifts if I have to.  I am already on overtime pay and it is only the fourth day of the week.  It is fine.”

 

Hanzo frowned, “It seems like your company asks a lot of you.”

 

“They do, but I enjoy my job.” He paused a moment, “I wouldn’t mind working for a museum, though.  That would truly be lovely.”

 

McCree eyed a sticker on the dash, one with a toll-free number printed below, “Question fer ya Allen.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do y’all make personal pick-ups?”

 

\-----

 

As the cab pulled up to the front of the museum, McCree and Hanzo thanked their new personal driver for their stay.  He insisted that he didn’t need the extra tip the archer wanted to include, but Hanzo tacked it on anyway.  McCree slipped the business card with Allen’s personal cabbie phone in a pocket of his camera bag.

 

From what the two men could see, there were several separate buildings that housed different exhibits.  The two largest of the buildings, the Resnick and LACMA West, were both the display and reception areas for the event.  As the two men walked through the ground, McCree discretely attached two mini-cams to lamp posts along the main path, along with a bug near a cigarette smoking station.

 

The beginning of the event was not to start for another hour or so.  McCree desperately wanted to escape the sticky, humid LA heat.

 

Wiping the sweat forming on his brown with the back of his hand, he turned to Hanzo, “We got time to kill.  You uh…ya wanna check any other exhibits out ‘fore we head into that one?”

 

The archer regarded him for a moment before speaking, “There is one building…” he trailed off hesitantly.

 

Smiling, McCree cupped the small of his back, “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

 

“Of course.” If the gunslinger knew any better, he would have sworn the archer was blushing

 

They walked the path toward the western end of the campus.  Hanzo remained rather quiet on the trek, but never shied from McCree’s touch.  It allowed him to take in the sights and bask in the company of a certain assassin.  The nervous flip-flop of McCree’s stomach made him crave a smoke, but he knew better.  After a short while, the two came upon a small, triangular-shaped building.  Hanzo’s back tensed a little under McCree’s palm as they neared the entrance.  McCree remained silent.

 

In an instant, he knew why Hanzo had wanted to come here.

 

Numerous Japanese paintings, sculptures, and various ceramics were on display for all to see.  Hanzo shrugged off McCree’s arm and wandered forward, enamored by the beautiful works of his homeland.  A faint smile played up his lips as he eyed a rather fragile ceremonial tea set housed in a fancy glass case.  If McCree was staring, it went completely unnoticed.

 

Hanzo lead him up a flight of stairs to a feature titled _Hanami_.  Hanzo’s face turned somber, but he pressed forward, McCree in tow behind him.  In a circular display area, numerous paintings depicting pink flowers lined the walls.  McCree remembered hearing Genji mention that word, _hanami_ , before when they were in Blackwatch together.  Any money it had something to do with the flowers.

 

Although Hanzo was staring at a beautiful image of a woman beneath a snowfall of pink petals, his mind was a thousand miles away.  Shuffling up next to him, McCree gave the man a gentle nudge with his elbow.

 

“Hey,” Hanzo flinched but McCree pressed on, “Ya doin’ okay?”

 

The archer inhaled deeply, held it, and released it all in one go, “Have I ever told you about springtime in Hanamura?”

 

The cowboy shook his head, “Naw, but…I’d like t’know.”

 

His partner’s eyes flicked to him briefly behind his boxy black frames before returning to the painting before him, “During the spring, there are festivals held throughout Japan to celebrate renewal and life.” Hanzo’s eyes fell to his feet, “It is…something I miss most about my home.”

 

Silence drew out between the two of them before McCree added, “I know this prol’ly ain’t the same, but after I left New Mexico I really missed the cacti.”

 

Hanzo blinked, “You…what?”

 

The gunslinger chuckled, “Well, y’see, cacti can bloom almost all year round ‘cause there’re just so many types, but many only do for a short period a’time.” He smiled fondly, “At night ya could go t’bed with a bunch’a patches outside yer house and _bam_! Ya wake up the next mornin’ to a spiky rainbow carpet.” His smile fell a little, “I haven’t seen it happen in years…” he trailed off softly.

 

After a brief pause, the archer mused, “Hmm, I suppose that makes two trips for us, then.”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

McCree’s eyes caught Hanzo’s wry smile, “Two trips; one to Hanamura to partake in _hanami_ , and one to New Mexico so that I may see these fabled cacti of which you speak.” He extended his arm for his partner to take.

 

The gunslinger obliged him with a smile of his own, “Darlin’, that may be your best idea yet.”

 

The agents made their way to the first floor, noting the time for the event was drawing near.  McCree placed a camera on the back of a display with the help of a body block by Hanzo, the latter pretending to tie his shoe after descending the stairs to place one behind a column that held a potted plant.

 

They made for the exit, arm in arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work isn’t BETAed, so if you guys catch anything just give me a heads-up and I’ll fix it!
> 
> Or you could...you know...be my BETA :D! My discord is PrettyKitty_22 and I just kind of lurk in the McHanzo server XD.
> 
> Or, you can visit me on my Tumblr (https://ryugawagatekigofuckoff.tumblr.com/) and say hi!


	3. Art Official Intelligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How fast can you pick a lock?”
> 
> “Never really timed it, if I can be honest. Probably a minute, give or take.”
> 
> Hanzo extended his hand, “Leave it to me. My record is twenty seconds.” He smirked.
> 
> McCree saw the opportunity and carpe’d the fuck out of it, “Bragging about speed ain’t always the brightest idea, ya know.” He punctuated that with a wink and smile of his own as he retrieved the case from the built-in slide compartment atop his prosthetic.
> 
> Hanzo swiped the kit from McCree swiftly, “You are unbelievably crude.” Came his swift response but…
> 
> Was that a blush creeping across Hanzo’s cheeks?
> 
> The cowboy pushed his luck, “Just sayin’ that y’gotta take yet time with some things, honey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because I didn’t post a chapter for so long, I figured I would try and make this one a little lengthier so y’all had something fun to read <3! 
> 
> It’s not BETAed, so if there are any mistakes, hit me up so I can fix ‘em!
> 
> There are notes about some of the Japanese at the end if y’all need them <3

The trek back to the east side of the campus seemed to take only a fourth as long, probably because McCree was enjoying the fact he had Hanzo so close to him he could smell the delicate fragrance of his shampoo.  Something light and earthy.  Something floral and sweet.  Something that almost made him lean in and smell the crook where Hanzo’s hair met his neck.

 

He was thankful he had at least _some_ impulse control, firmly shoving this morning’s shower as far back into his mind as it could go.

 

As they neared the larger of the two buildings, the agents came upon a line forming near the entrance of a set of double doors.  McCree seized the opportunity to lean closer to Hanzo.

 

“Figure this must be the place.”

 

“Indeed.” Came his partner’s swift reply.

 

McCree lowered his voice an octave as a handful of people grouped behind them, “Winston sent our tickets t’be picked up, yeah?”

 

Glancing around with a casual look, Hanzo replied low and even, “I believe they are at the front desk.”

 

“Good.” The gunslinger murmured.

 

The line moved forward toward the doors.  McCree seized the opportunity to rearrange the items in the camera bag.  Knowing the museum would probably have heightened security, he slipped the remaining mini-cams and bugs in the false bottom of the bag.  He slipped the camera around his neck and hoped it would make it past inspection.

 

The “couple” finally reached the shade of the awning and stepped through the wide doors into cool, blessed air conditioning.  No sooner had they crossed the threshold, they were greeted by a rather stiff looking man in a polo with the museum’s logo emblazoned over his left breast.  He stopped them both,  
  
“Excuse me! Do you have passes for the pre-exhibit showing?” he quipped while he eyed McCree with rather blatant denigration.

 

The gunslinger met his gaze and smiled honey-sweet, “Believe they’re at that there counter behind yah, _doll_.” He drew long and slow, slapping the scornful look right off Mr. I-have-some-kind-of-reputation-to-uphold’s face.

 

The man flubbed, “Oh, well I—please, right this way.”

 

Hanzo tugged McCree toward the desk before he could draw more attention.  The receptionist behind the counter was much more pleasant to deal with.  A quick look-up of their names in the database produced two lanyards to act as permanent passes for the weekend.  They slipped them around their necks and ambled toward the security check.

 

Two average-looking men in similar uniforms waved wands over patrons as they passed through the check.  Women handed over their clutches and purses for screening to a female guard at a table behind them, McCree assuming he would have to comply as well.  The guards passed the wands over the two museum-goers, the one that floated by McCree producing electronic interference.  The guards eyed him for a second.

 

“Must be my camera or my belt!  Sorry, I can hand ‘em over if need be.” He extended his hand with the bag and removed the one from his neck.

 

Hanzo had already moved through the line and was watching from beyond the check.  The lady searching through his bag made polite conversation, “Here to see the art this weekend?”

 

The cowboy smiled, “Well, I’m mostly here t’see his.” He nodded his head at Hanzo, “It’s the first time any of his work has been on display like this.  That, an’ I couldn’t let ‘im have all this fun in LA without me.” He punctuated it with a wink.

 

The bag-checker nodded with a quirk of her lips, “Ah, I see.” She fastened the clip to close the bag and handed it and the camera back over the table, “Everything seems to check out.  Just pay attention to what can and cannot be photographed.  Enjoy your tour of our facility!”

 

McCree crossed through the turnstile and extended his flesh arm for Hanzo to take, “Ready _sweetheart?_ ” He emphasized with a quirk of his lips.

 

Hanzo glanced at him, sharp eyes clearly onto McCree’s antics.  He retorted, “But of course, _omae._ ”

 

Even though he had absolutely no idea what that meant, McCree’s stomach rolled so hard he had to swallow to keep the two cups of coffee he had for breakfast down his gullet.  Hanzo’s smirk was subtle as McCree leaned in to murmur, “Care t’share that in English?”

 

“Hmm…” The archer tugged him forward toward the throng of people, “I suppose you will have to find a way to translate it.”

 

Before McCree could quip back he was shoved sideways into Hanzo, who caught him before he could tumble any further.  He tried to look for the perpetrator as he righted himself, catching a glimpse of a man with a briefcase forcing his way through the crowd, albeit much politer than he had been with McCree.  Hanzo clearing his throat snapped him back to reality.

 

The assault had closed what little distance there was between the two of them, the former not even realizing he had slid his arm around his partner’s waist for support.  If McCree were any closer to Hanzo’s face, he could have kissed him.  Not that he would have minded that, but still.

 

As nonchalantly as possible, he took a step back and withdrew his hand while pretending to dust off his clothing, “Sorry honey.” He mumbled, face cast down to hide the furious blush creeping across his cheekbones.

 

Hanzo seemed relatively unfazed, “It is fine,” he glared forward to the suit-clad man as he disappeared into the crowd, “Some people have no manners.”

 

“I’ll say,” McCree huffed.

 

The gunslinger and the archer took stock of their surroundings; the main hall stretched the length of the building.  Several crystal chandeliers caught the evening sun from a handful of skylight windows and bounced the light across the walls and floor.  Paintings and sculptures lined the walls, sectioned off by red velvet rope barricades. 

 

Advancing, McCree powered on the device in hand.  He took a picture of the room, sans flash, to test the settings.  The photos and videos were synched directly to Overwatch’s mainframe.  No blur, high resolution, good focus; three qualities that would make facial recognition easier when Athena ran background checks.

 

He snapped one.  Then another.  The museum goers were none the wiser, caught up _oohing_ and _aahing_ at the displays.  Hanzo gave a gentle tug to the fabric over McCree’s flesh arm, who acknowledged with a little hum.  The archer gave a swift, subtle nod of his head toward a half-circle of people gathered around a refreshment table.

 

McCree nodded and snapped a quick picture of the group.  He brought up the image on the camera’s display to review with Hanzo.  He enlarged it and scrolled over their profiles.  Two of the four, a smiling mahogany-haired woman and the man on her arm, had little gold nametags just below their right shoulders.  Workers, maybe?  The other two were nursing glasses of what appeared to be punch (hopefully spiked), tittering at something the other had said.

 

The mahogany-haired woman caught McCree’s gaze, held it, and waved him over with a smile.

 

“Looks like we’re wanted,” He gave Hanzo a little nudge and uttered, “Better go make nice.  Maybe we can get some info.”

 

“Indeed.” Came his partner’s low reply, “I assume you remember the details of our… _relationship?_ ” Hanzo queried with a subtle side-eye.

 

Focusing on a rather boldly colored glass vase, McCree proclaimed with a snort, “Wouldn’t dream of forgettin’, sweet pea.”

 

“Good,” the archer mused as he tightened his grip on McCree’s arm, “Let us go and _make nice_ , a you say.”

 

The gunslinger smiled, a little too genuinely if he had to admit, “Right behind ya, sweetheart.”

 

The two began their trek forward.  The woman who beckoned them forward got the attention of the man linked to her arm. The other couple excused themselves from the conversation to greet people in the center floor, probably other patrons here.   He acknowledge her, his eyes falling to the duo strolling toward them.

 

He smiled and extended his hand, “Welcome to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art!” the cowboy gripped it first, “I am the curator of this fine establishment.” He released McCree’s hand to grasp Hanzo’s, “My name is Dr. William Hamell, and this is my wife, Carmen.” He gestured to the redheaded woman beside him.

 

William Hamell, to put it bluntly, looked exactly like what McCree expected a curator of a museum should; he donned a well-tailored suit and gold rimmed half spectacles, had salt-and-pepper hair that complimented the crinkles of his crow’s feet when he smiled, and had the welcoming personality of anyone who dealt with the public all day, minus the smug, stuck-up attitude he honestly anticipated.  His wife, however, seemed to be a little more lax.  Carmen wore a smile that could rival the Cheshire Cat.  Though her husband was dressed to the nines, she wore a dark black pants and a simple purple blouse.  She seemed just as personable, if not more so, than her husband.

 

McCree clasped the woman’s extended hand and brought it to his mouth to place a kiss atop her knuckles.  She giggled out an amused “Charmed.” Before Hanzo traded him and did the same.

 

Hanzo started off with introductions, “I am Ryuji and this is my husband Joel.” he bent slightly at the waist toward the two, “I am humbled to finally meet the operator of this fine establishment.”

 

The curator nodded, his smile growing teeth, “Ah, one of our artists, then?” he gestured to the lanyard around Hanzo’s neck.

 

McCree cut in, “Sure is! We planned on visitin’ ages ago, havin’ Ryu’s artwork on display’s just a bonus.” McCree nudged Hanzo with his shoulder, flesh arm snaking around the small of his back.  Hanzo preened; even if he wasn’t technically an artist, he still liked to be praised.

 

“Which works are yours?” The curator’s wife questioned with intrigue.

 

Oh shit.

 

The two of them hadn’t even made their way into the museum to locate the artwork, let alone which pieces were on display.  McCree forced himself not to swallow loudly, a trickle of panic setting in.  He really should have read the goddamn file more thoroughly.

 

Hanzo, however, had it covered, “There are several.  The collection depicts several works from varying baroque and Renaissance artists with original digital overlays.” he explained fluidly, “We have not come across the in the hall yet, however.”

 

Leave it to Hanzo to save his ass with a smooth explanation like that.  He drummed his fingers on Hanzo’s flank; _THX,_ Morse code for “thanks” _,_ tapped out swiftly against the archer’s hip.  Hanzo acknowledged with a little squeeze of his own.

 

McCree’s heart most certainly did not leap out of his chest.

 

The curator pondered for a second before the light in his attic flicked on, “Ah, I remember that collection!” It was Hanzo’s turn to be surprised, “One of the last ones to arrive.  Sorry about your invitation, it was a technical screw-up on our end.” The curator apologized with a little shuffle of his feet.

 

That must’ve been Winston’s doing, no doubt.

 

“It is not an issue.  I am simply happy to be a part of this exhibit.” Hanzo stated easily.

 

“Well, that’s nice to hear!  Are you enjoying LA so far?” she turned to acknowledge McCree, a little smirk across her lips, “Not too hot for you, is it?”

 

He chuckled, “Ma’am, I’m from the desert.  Heat don’ bother me none, it’s the damn humidity.  S’honestly like tryin’ t’breath underwater.”

 

Mrs. Hamell laughed, though Dr. Hamell looked a bit preoccupied, “Damn it…” he uttered as his eyes scanned over the crowd.

 

McCree caught it instantly, “Somethin’ wrong?”

 

“Nothing it _wrong_ , per se,” he cut himself off, “I’m just looking for Nikolas.”

 

McCree nor Hanzo didn’t even have a chance to pursue that before Carmen cut in, “I saw him run past here not too long ago.” She sipped her punch, smacked her lips, “Traffic is probably a nightmare given the time.” Her eyes seemed to light up as she turned her head toward the back of the hall, “Oh, there he is!”

 

Padding swiftly up toward the group was the same man who almost made McCree kiss the marble floor only ten minutes ago.  The man, Nikolas, was taller than Hanzo, but shorter than his partner.  His dark hair and olive skin harmonized well with his dark black suit and green patterned tie.  The briefcase he was carrying was gone, now replaced with a little plate of _hors d’oeuvres_.  As he got closer, he smiled.

 

McCree didn’t like him.

 

It wasn’t the fact Nikolas had bumped into him, nor the fact he also neglected to apologize.  Something about him was…off.  The cowboy’s gut gave an awful lurch as the man closed the distance.  He acknowledged a few people as he passed them; small touches to the arm, little smiles, a titter of laughter.

 

And McCree didn’t like him one bit.

 

Nikolas sauntered up to them and popped up an _hors d’oeuvre_ into his mouth as he made the final step.  He swallowed the little rolled _canapé_ in one bite, licking his finger before greeting Carmen with a smile, “Sorry I’m late!  I hadn’t expected traffic to be so bad, even on the hyperexpressway!”

 

Carmen waved him off as her husband stated, “We were just talking about you!” Dr. Hamell reached into his pocket, pulled out a pin, and handed it to the man, “Ryuji, Joel, this is Nikolas Marios.  He oversees finances for the museum and helps with a lot of our public relations.”

 

Before McCree could extend his hand, Nikolas made eye contact with Hanzo.  He smiled, grabbed for Hanzo’s free hand, and shook it. “Ryuji.  What a lovely name.”  He held it much longer than what McCree could consider friendly toward someone who was married, and it sent an upsurge of jealousy through the cowboy’s gut.

 

But he had to stop himself.  Hanzo wasn’t married.  They weren’t even together.  But still, watching this exchange was torture.

 

Marios finally released Hanzo’s hand to shake his, neglecting to make eye contact and smile falling from the corners of his lips, a pitiful recreation of the interaction he had with Hanzo.

 

Addressing Hanzo specifically, he asked, “Can I assume you are in town for the gala this weekend?” Marios popped another _canapé_ into his mouth. 

 

“Yes, some of my art is on display and we will be here for the weekend.” Hanzo replied gently despite the fact McCree’s elbow had whacked his midsection when Marios’s hand inched forward and rested on his forearm.

 

“I could show you around!  There is a lot to do in downtown LA for couples.” Marios all but insisted with a smile.

 

_Okay, this ain’t gonna fly_.  McCree had enough, “Yeah, we were checkin’ some stuff out on the flight in.” McCree tried to sound as polite as possible to someone who was hitting on his “husband” right in front of him.

 

Beside him, his partner snorted, deeming it fit to weave the fingers of his left hand with the palm of McCree’s right, “If there is one thing Joel can manage, it is finding deals on last minute outings.” The squeeze Hanzo gave his palm made his stomach flop, but the little grin that split his lips was more than contagious enough to jump to the corner of Hanzo’s mouth

 

Marios glanced between the two, “So you two are…together, then?”

 

“Married seven years, don’t plan on changin’ that anytime soon.” McCree responded without missing a beat, not bothering to hide the smirk that overtook his mouth. 

 

“Ah, I see.” Marios acknowledged, interest in Hanzo seemingly lost as he stabbed an _hors d’oeuvre_ off his plate with a toothpick.  He turned away, clearly disheartened Hanzo hadn’t reciprocated his advances.

 

Meanwhile, another couple had crept up toward the Hamells and another pair behind them.  McCree whispered into the archer’s ear, “Y’wanna scope the rest of t’place out, honey?”

 

“Hmm,” Hanzo gave pause to stare down two woman holding cocktails as they passed, “Find me where they procured those drinks from and you have yourself an agreement, _dear_.”

 

And so, McCree, with his fingers still intertwined with Hanzo’s, drew him into the crow of artists and museumgoers in lieu of finding the hopefully open bar. 

 

It was nice, the gunslinger had to admit, admiring at the art as he traversed the main hall with Hanzo.   Being submerged in a sea of people and not having to worry whether or not one was going to put a bullet in the back of your head when you weren’t paying attention was always a bonus to undercover jobs.

 

The other?  Well, McCree couldn’t really think of anything higher on his list of things he enjoyed than having the object of his affections plastered to his side for a few days.

 

Okay, sure, the relationship wasn’t real and it wasn’t like he was exactly going to fess up to Hanzo in this lifetime, but it was nice to fantasize while he could, right?  And fantasize he did; he didn’t want to even think about how many times he had jacked-off to the man who had taken control of leading them around the room, if this morning was any indication.

 

As they passed a group of young twenty-somethings taking group photos, McCree couldn’t help but snort at how angrily he had at first, because how could someone who acted like such a self-righteous asshole look _that_ hot all the time, really?  And then it got more serious.  And McCree couldn’t stop thinking about him.  And now as McCree got pulled across the crowded hallway fighting his rising body temperature and potential boner, he knew he was marching straight to the cemetery with a shovel to dig his heart a grave, and Hanzo had the map to guide him.

 

He tried to distract himself by grabbing the camera dangling from his neck to take pictures from the crowd in the hopes that maybe something would pop up from Athena in the meantime. A little tug from Hanzo and a nod from him, however, halted that; off in the corner at the base of a grand staircase near a cluster of potentially boisterous individuals sat a bar run by a pair of omnic bartenders.

 

McCree huffed a laugh, “Was beginnin’ ta think those people were pullin’ those cocktails outta their asses.” He was the one to take the lead this time.

 

“If that were the case, we would be going to the bathroom to check on the situation.” The archer groused.

 

They dipped and ducked in and out of the party goers until they came the counter.   The bar was clearly set up by a catering company, decently sized, well-stocked and carried a little something for everyone.  The Omnic toward the end, one in a black suit and a bright red apron polishing a highball glass, spotted the duo first.

 

“What can I get you gentlemen?”

 

“I’ll take uh…” McCree scanned the bottles behind him, “Whiskey.  Neat.”

 

The omnic nodded.  He turned to Hanzo.

 

“The _genshu_ , please.”

 

The barman scurried off to fetch their drinks.  In the meantime, McCree decided to scroll through the photos on the camera.  Athena’s blue logo flashed briefly followed by the passcode screen before he could access the storage.  He scrolled through the files.   Nothing noteworthy, mostly the backs of heads and faces of people he would hopefully never have to deal with again.  The only ones that stood out for sure were the curator and his wife.  McCree exited the screen and turned to face the crowd to his left below the staircase.  He brought the camera to his face, and pretended to fiddle with the focus and aperture and snapped three photos in rapid succession.  They looked clear enough, but just to be on the safe side, a few more couldn’t hurt.  He rotated just a little and—

 

_Holy shit._

 

McCree’s jaw fell slack as he drew a near silent breath.  Beside him, caught in the crossfire of his third shot, sat Hanzo in the most unaware yet beautiful position McCree had ever caught him.  Head propped on his hand, eyes unfocused as he stared over the rims of his fake boxy glasses, and the little flip of his hair fractured and split by the overhead light.

 

He looked—it was—

 

Then Hanzo just _had_ to glance over.  If McCree didn’t look like a deer in the headlights before, he certainly fucking did now.  He snapped his jaw shut so hard he could have cracked a tooth.

 

His eyes narrowed, “What are you doing?”

 

“ _Nothin’._ ” McCree wheezed entirely too quick.

 

“Oh?” the archer replied as the bartender placed their corresponding drinks before them, “You seem nervous for someone who has nothing to hide.” He deadpanned.

 

“Oh, well, uh—”

 

Hanzo, after pouring himself a serving from the porcelain _tokkuri,_ brought the rim of the matching _choko_ to his lips, “Perhaps the camera can tell me.”

 

Before McCree’s stomach could actually fall out of his body entirely, Athena’s voice interrupted simultaneously in their ears, _“Actually, it does have something to say.”_

 

She took control of the camera, scrolled through the photos, and brought up the first one McCree had captured in that particular moment. _“I am running constant facial recognition algorithms.”_ She zoomed in on a pair of faces, _“These two have been to several other events such as this in the past three months, but with more questionable attendees”_

“Such as?” the archer twisted in his seat, trying to find a clear line of sight to the duo; the gentlemen, a short, pudgy aristocrat with a horrible comb-over and a thin, long handlebar mustache appeared to be scoffing with his nose turned up.  The woman on his arm, a gangly, gaunt looking thing with a pointed face who seemed three shades too pale for the make-up she had applied mimicked her partner’s stance.  They were certainly a pair, that was for sure.

 

_“According to the records…”_ Athena paused briefly, _“They appear to be potential supporters of Talon.”_

 

McCree brought his whisky to his lips, “What kinda support we talkin’ about?” he uttered into the amber liquid. 

 

_“From the data, merely financial.  But that is support nonetheless.”_

 

“Does the reason truly matter?” Hanzo queried, low and somber into the rim of his _choko_.

 

McCree sipped his drink, “Y’got a point there.”

 

_“I will send you the information I have to your communication devices.  Take necessary precautions before engaging them, agents.”_ Athena warned before her logo disappeared from the camera screen.  Their comms pinged seconds later with the incoming mail.

 

Silence fell between the two.  McCree kicked back the rest of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it trickled down his throat, “So…” he hummed over the buzz of the crowd, “What’s the plan?”

 

“I could always apply one of the Shimada-gumi methods of intel extraction.” Hanzo stated nonchalantly as he poured the final remnants of his _sake_ into the _choko_. “Though I feel that would be ignoring all protocol for our assignment.”

 

He side-eyed the cowboy with a smirk as he downed the last of his alcohol.

 

McCree snorted and rose to his feet, “And they say y’ain’t got a sense of humor.” He extended his elbow, a half smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

 

The archer followed suit, sliding his hand through the opening of McCree’s arm, “Who says I was aiming for humor?  I was being serious.” He schooled his features to something serious and fierce.  He probably would have been able to hold it too, had McCree not erupted into laughter.  A few nearby heads turned to their direction.  Hanzo flinched, forcing himself not to slap his hand over McCree’s open maw, “Care to draw more attention to our covert operation?” he hissed.

 

“Well excuse me fer findin’ yer brand of humor amusin’, honey.” The gunslinger retorted.  The eye-roll he received only made him chuckle.

 

“A topic for later discussion.” Hanzo insisted, eyes finding their targets across the room.

 

McCree fished his comm from his pocket, “Reckon so.”

 

He pulled up the data on the screen of his comm; Edward and Louise Gascoyne were American dignitaries.  Edward was a retired businessman now-politician who dealt in international affairs.  His wife had been a baker, though now it seemed she had given up that life to travel with her husband to attend parties and mingle with important people.

 

And some of those people seemed questionable; several names Athena cross-referenced with theirs McCree had recognized from years ago working with Blackwatch.  Some, he knew were long gone, one in particular from a mission in Venice that involved Talon, Reyes shotgunning some asshole out a window seven stories up, and trekking through an art museum.  He had to fight down the urge to chuck his comm at the wall in frustration.  He handed it off to Hanzo, who began to scroll through the info.

 

The Gascoynes were surrounded by a group of other patrons, all of whom gave McCree the most uppity, uncomfortable vibe he had felt in a long while.  Between dangly jewelry and high-class ensembles, he felt rather out of place in his flannel.  He was sure Hanzo would’ve fit right in though, had his path played out differently. 

 

Speaking of, he cast a glance sideways.  The archer seemed unimpressed by the whole ordeal, if McCree had to tack a word to it.  Hanzo’s face was expressionless, though the little furrow in his brow that appeared when he was annoyed had made an appearance earlier than McCree had anticipated.   He was sure Hanzo had been to countless events when he was being groomed to become _kumichō_ , and McCree was sure that it probably brought up more bad memories than anything else.

 

McCree leaned over to check on their approach only to find Hanzo missing.  He spun in a full circle trying to spot him in the crowd and caught his topknot moving toward the artwork displayed along the rightmost wall.   The cowboy scurried to catch up with him.

 

Hanzo had stopped about a meter from a little squared off section of art, the very final one in the row.  As McCree came up behind him, he caught the little nametag mounted below the bottom work; _Baroquen, a works in a set by Ryuji Touma_ was boldly stamped for all to see.  From where he was standing, McCree could see Hanzo regarding them with a little smile.

 

McCree seized the opportunity.  He brought the camera to rest on his cheek and took a nice succession of shots of Hanzo’s profile as he stared at the wall.  Would’ve been great had the archer not noticed that one, too.

 

“I expect you to delete those.” The archer groused.

 

McCree dropped the camera back around his neck, “Don’t know what’cha mean, honey.” He teased, closing the distance with a smile that feigned innocence.

 

Hanzo, who’s cheeks looked a shade pinker than a moment ago, clipped, “The camera is for…” he glanced around; nobody within immediate earshot, “Is for gathering information via facial recognition and infrared scanning.  Not to—”

 

“Take pictures’a teammates.” McCree finished with a huff. “Y’know, maybe if the old Oh-dub and B-dub teams broke the rules a lil, I’d actually have some good things to remember them all by instead of just the bad shit.”

 

Okay, that may have been a bit much.

 

Basically screaming _“Hey, I want a nice picture or two’a ya so I can remember ya if ya die,”_ may have not been a good way to approach that.  Then again, telling Hanzo he was undeniably in love with him was probably just as bad.  McCree busied himself with the camera again, turned the settings to infrared mode and brought up the gallery.  He selected the last six pictures to delete before a hand pushed his away.

 

McCree looked up just enough to see Hanzo’s face, expression softened to something akin to regret, “You do not have to get rid of them.” He blurted out.

 

McCree cocked an eyebrow, “Y’sure?  Just a second ago ya kind’a—”

 

“Yes.” His grip on McCree’s hand tightened a fraction, “I…there are many things I wish I had been able to take with me after I left my home.  Photographs, personal possessions, items that I can never replace.” He exhaled a little sigh, “I…I had not realized it could have been the same for others as well.  My apologies.” He released McCree’s hand, though took a step closer.

 

“Hell, I didn’t even have stuff to take when I was yanked from Deadlock.  Just m’hat and Peacekeeper.” He murmured, opting to stare at the collection before him, “But that’s what it’s always been.” He brought up the files once more, “If y’don’t want me to keep them I don’t gotta.  I know yer all about yer privacy.”

 

Hanzo tilted his head toward McCree, regarded him for a moment, “You may keep them on one condition.”

 

“Which is?”

 

The archer shrugged, “I get to decide which ones are suitable to keep.” He made a grab for the camera.

 

McCree, thanking years of dodging bullets, stepped to the side, prosthetic hand whipping the camera out of the way just in time, forcing Hanzo to grapple to his flannel, “Y’know, it ain’t the best idea t’negotiate with the man holdin’ the evidence.” McCree chuckled.

 

“Did it sound like I was negotiating?” Hanzo yanked him eye level by the fabric of his shirt, “I want to be clear that I was making a demand, _omae_.”

 

McCree was ever grateful for whatever powers that had kept the two of them from so much as being glanced toward.  From this close, McCree could clearly see the cracks and flecks of gold that cut tiny rivers through Hanzo’s amber eyes.  Leave it to an ex-crime lord to want to be in charge of every situation they’re in.  Not that McCree had any qualms about that.

 

“Y’gonna tell me what that means?”

 

“Are you going to relinquish the camera?”

 

“Not a chance, sweetheart.” McCree let a smirk slip past the edge of his mouth, “But maybe when we’re back at the hotel we can go through it together.  Sound fair?”

 

Hanzo’s mouth failed to hide his amusement as he released his grasp on McCree’s flannel, “I suppose I will allow it this once.”

 

McCree spotted movement in his peripherals that forced the conversation in a different direction, “Good t’know ‘cause if we wanna do this, now’d be the perfect time.”

 

His partner’s brows furrowed as he peeked a quick glance over his shoulder.  Moving back toward the bar were their targets, the group of fellow patrons having broken away and dispersed after the pair had moved along.  It was now or never.

 

“Shall we?” Hanzo emphasized with a little tilt of his head as he spun to face the bar.

 

McCree’s hand found residence on the small of Hanzo’s back as he ushered him forward, “I’m with ya, sweetheart.”

 

The Gascoynes were drinking in the atmosphere of the evening, caught up in conversation and laughing with each other.  And that wasn’t the only thing they were drinking.  The agents watched as Edward, cheeks ruddy from a combination of heat and booze, pointed out a rather expensive looking bottle from the top shelf.  The omnic bartender took a credit chip for payment; it must have been too expensive for patrons to have it on the house.

 

McCree bent in to Hanzo’s space, lips pulled together in a smile for coverage as he murmured, “Any ideas on how t’go ‘bout this one?”

 

“If there is one thing to which I am well acquainted,” Hanzo feigned a smile in response as he spoke, “It is how to infuriate the aristocracy.”

 

“Yeah?” McCree cast him an amused glance, “This I gotta see.”

 

Hanzo’s right hand slipped into his back pocket to obtain his wallet.  He pinched a lone credit card between his fingers and slid the wallet back into his jeans, “Follow me.”

 

“M’right behind ya.” The latter quipped with a smile.

 

The archer hummed neutrally in response, the distance between the targets closing more with each passing step.  He chose a set of stools three seats down from their targets, leaning into McCree as he adjusted their seats, “I hope your time in a covert operations division and chasing bounties has taught you about following along.”

 

McCree snorted, “I don’t think I could fuck it up too bad, sweetheart.”

 

Hanzo tapped his forefinger on the bar top, the one omnic bartender catching his movement as he cleaned the counter, “The same as before, gentlemen?”

 

“No, I would like to have…” he glanced at the bottles, then to the Gascoyns, “What they are drinking, please.”

 

His free hand roamed to the space between McCree’s knee and thigh and gave it a squeeze, “Oh uh, yeah!  I’ll have one too, if’n yer willin’!”

 

“Those particular bottles are not on the complementary menu and must be purchased _á la carte_ ,” The bartender looked between them, “They are quite expensive, sirs.  Not only are you paying for the bottle, but for the donation to the museum’s patron fund for museum upkeep.  It is double what it would cost normally, but purchasing the bottle gives you membership for life.”

 

Edward, who had apparently caught the last part of the conversation, eyed them with a condescending smirk.  Hanzo only shrugged and pressed his card onto the counter with a little _tap_ , “The cost is nothing to me, and I am willing to purchase it more if it will assist this organization.  Do you have two bottles in stock?”

 

The omnic looked speechless, but took it nonetheless, “O-of course, sir.  Give me a moment.” Before the bartender could walk off Hanzo beckoned him closer and whispered something McCree couldn’t quite make out.  The bartended stiffened, but nodded.  He trotted toward the register carrying Hanzo’s card like a Fabergé egg.

 

McCree’s eyebrows quirked, “Care t’share?”

 

The archer tossed him a wry smile, “You shall in due time.”

 

The cowboy risked a glance toward the Gascoynes. If Edward’s eyes got any bigger they’d have popped out of his head.  McCree couldn’t help but chuckle as he leaned into Hanzo’s space, “Looks like we got their attention.”

 

Hanzo acknowledged him with a little hum.  The hand he had cupped around McCree’s leg had found residence on the bar.  Particularly close to McCree’s prosthetic, if he could admit.  He contemplated extending his pinky to wrap around the archer’s.  What he didn’t contemplate was Hanzo beating him to it, his calloused digit brushing over McCree’s metal one and wrapping around it.

 

McCree’s heartbeat most certainly did _not_ double in time, nor did he have to mask a gasp with a cough.  McCree couldn’t even feel it.  He was _fine_.

 

Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly the truth, but he was definitely was fine.  The best he had felt in a while, actually.  Hanzo’s gaze was settled somewhere to his left, trying to keep an eye on the Gascoynes, if McCree had to guess.  But the archer caught the cowboy’s slight shift and glanced toward him.

 

McCree tossed him a winning smile.  Hanzo rolled his eyes and turned forward, but not before McCree caught the tell-tale twitch in the corner of his mouth.  Hanzo was good at a lot of things, but hiding a smile wasn’t one of them.  McCree tugged at his pinky,

 

“Somethin’ funny, honey?” he waggled his eyebrows.

 

Hanzo snorted, “Do you ever cease?”

 

McCree barked out a laugh, “Never when it comes t’you, baby.”

 

Hanzo’s posture tensed a fraction and relaxed just a fast.  McCree wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, but the little spasm Hanzo’s hand gave tipped him off.  What was that just now?  The gunslinger cautioned a glance to their targets; the two were still immersed in conversation, though much quieter and, if he had to guess, probably shit-talking the couple beside them.

 

_Couple._

 

Oh _shit_.

 

What if…what if Hanzo read a little too much into that last comment?  What if the archer, that tactical, cunning, handsome archer, put two and two together and realized that all of McCree’s casual flirting banter actually held some truth behind it?  What if he had to explain to him, now, in front of an entire room full of strangers that, _“Yeah, Han, I’m in love with ya,”_ only to blow their cover and friendship to hell and back all in one go?

 

The cowboy’s stomach jolted at the thought.

 

Hanzo pulled him out of it, “Did you hear me, _omae_?”

 

“Oh, uh…” Of course he fucking didn’t.  McCree licked his lips, “Sorry ‘bout that.  Kinda spaced a little.”

 

McCree waited.  Waited for Hanzo to ask him what that was.  Seconds stretched to eons before Hanzo uttered, “Pay attention.”

 

The assassin drummed on McCree’s prosthetic.  Then stopped.  Tapped again.  Stopped.

 

Morse code?

 

_“Wall. Sign.”_

 

McCree’s eyes flittered to Hanzo’s hand over to his face, a smile gleaming across it as Hanzo flicked his eyes to the left.  Over his shoulder, under the leaves of a towering potted palm tree, was sign for the restrooms tacked to the wall.  The insignia of a man, woman, and omnic was inscribed toward the top.

 

McCree tapped back, _“And?”_

 

_“Second line.”_ The archer tapped back swiftly.

 

And then McCree got it; below the inscription for the restroom were the words _Museum Offices_ in curly manuscript.  Hell, had it been any bolder it would have smacked him in the face.  He returned the code, _“Got it.”_

 

This time, Hanzo spoke, “We can freshen up afterwards.”

 

Which in all actuality meant _“We can snoop the office.”_

 

The cowboy couldn’t help but chuckle, “Loud n’ clear, sweet pea.”

 

The bar tender reappeared from the little curtain hiding what McCree supposed was the refrigerated stock.  He placed a bucket of ice before them, along with two gold-etched champagne flutes.  Into the ice he shoved both bottles.  He slid Hanzo the credit card, “Thank you for your purchase.  You may keep the flutes, as a courtesy of the donation to the museum’s charity fund.” The omnic cheerily added, “And with a donation this large, the museum will also replace them for a lifetime should they break!  Thank you, on behalf of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.” The barkeep wandered off.

 

As Hanzo grappled a bottle McCree chose to inspect the flute.  Inscribed in the glass, with an overlay of gold, was a detailed picture pf the main hall of the LACMA.  There was also a little ribbon with the year and the dates for the weekend premiere.  A fine souvenir, McCree noted with a smile.

 

The cork firing off into his chest grabbed his attention.  Several patrons looked their way when McCree yelped.  “Oh, I am terribly sorry.” Hanzo, face turning a lovely shade of pink, chuckling lowly as his eyes caught McCree’s, “Would you like me to pour you some as recompense?” he smirked.

 

The bastard wasn’t sorry at all.

 

Though McCree didn’t mind, “I think that’d be a fair trade, considering y’just bruised my ribs.” He pat his chest, feigning hurt.

 

Hanzo snorted out a little _hrumph_ , opting to pour McCree’s glass first.  The champagne bubbled as the gunslinger brought it to his lips, nose catching notes of floral and fruity flavors as the drink fizzed up to the rim of the glass.  He waited for Hanzo to pour himself a glass before speaking.

 

McCree extended his arm, “A toast.” He stated, “To our first weekend in LA together.” He smiled.

 

Hanzo clinked his flute against McCree’s, “Indeed.”

 

What McCree wasn’t expecting was Hanzo to curl his arm around his.  He followed in suite and leaned in closer, bringing the fizzing drinks to their lips at the same time.  It was, quite frankly, the best champagne McCree had ever tasted.  McCree had done a lot of schmoozing in Blackwatch; going undercover at fancy parties or disguised as a waiter.  He had tasted a _lot_ of alcohol.  But nothing compared to this.

 

But, then again, maybe it was the company.

 

“This’s uh…this stuff’s pretty good.” He muttered.

 

“Hmm…yes, I suppose.” Hanzo rolled the words off his tongue as he took another small sip, “There are better things, however.”

 

Hanzo smirked, arm still gently intertwined with McCree’s.  The party, the targets, the mission all faded away as the two became lost in each other’s gaze.  McCree was close enough to spot the droplets of bubbly clinging to Hanzo’s mustache from the drinks he took.  In a flash of weakness, he almost leaned in to capture the bubbles on his lips.  McCree swallowed harder than he should have, praying that he hadn’t been caught staring at the man’s mouth as he cleared his throat.

 

“Such as?” McCree managed to breath after a second or two.

 

Before Hanzo could respond, however, McCree spotted their targets eying them as they stood.

 

“We’re ‘bout to have company, sweetheart.” He uttered, disappointed the interaction with Hanzo ended so quickly.

 

“I see.” Hanzo’s expression fell slack for a split second before schooling his features.  He shifted to grab the bottle once more, “Care for a top off?”

 

The corner of the gunslinger’s mouth quirked up, “If y’wouldn’t mind.”

 

Hanzo, who shouldn’t have been nearly as skilled at pouring drinks in his position, filled both of their flutes to full.  The archer finally unwound his arm from the gunslinger’s, the latter already missing the heat from lack of contact.  Just behind them, Edward had stopped to comment, with his wife in tow.

 

“Ah, enjoying the evening gentlemen?” his voice most certainly did _not_ match his physique.  It seemed much too deep and husky for a man his height.

 

Hanzo’s lips pulled up ever so slightly, “Indeed.” He swiveled the bar stool around to face the two, “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”

 

Edward, the haughty bastard he seemed to be, puffed out his chest and placed a delicate hand over it, “I am Edward Gascoyne and this is my wife, Louise.” He gestured to the tall woman behind him, “We are patrons of this fine museum.”

 

“I see.” Hanzo noted with, McCree catching his tone of fake rapture.  He added, “I am Ryuji and this is my husband Joel,” he gestured to McCree, “My art is on display for the premiere.”

 

The Gascoynes’ eyes fell to McCree, “Heh, yeah.  I’m just here t’archive the whole shebang.” He grabbed the camera and gave it a little shake.  His other hand found its way to the top of Hanzo’s leg, only to be grasped and fingers threaded together a second later by the archer.

 

McCree’s heart most certainly did not skip a beat.

 

Louise was the next to speak, “Touma…you said your art was on display?”

 

“Yes.” Hanzo replied, brushing his thumb gently over McCree’s.  The gunslinger returned the gesture atop the former’s knuckle.

 

“Ah yes, I remember. You had that… _interesting_ little display of the Baroque period, right?” Louise’s lips curled into a wicked, condescending little smirk.

 

Hanzo’s grip on McCree’s hand tightened a fraction, thought his expression remained neutral, “You are correct.  And yours?”

 

Her smile faltered, “Pardon me?”

 

“Think what Ryu’s tryin’ t’ask is, what artwork here has yer name on it, ma’am?” McCree chimed in.

 

Edward tilted his nose upward, “You do not have to create art to appreciate it.”

 

“Really?  Could’a fooled me.” McCree shrugged.  Hanzo’s fingers splayed and flexed underneath his.

 

“Yes well,” Louise shrugged off the retort, “We have lived in Los Angeles for years now.  We have helped to bring the museum to its full potential.”

 

“We are the museums top patrons and plan to stay as such for years to come.” Edward preened.

 

The bartender, who had crossed behind them by happenstance, interrupted, “Actually, sir,” he began as he set a heavy-looking case of liquor down behind them, “This man currently the top supporter of the museum.”

 

_“What?”_ was all the man could choke out, his flushed face graying a fraction as his eyes darted between the two of them, _“How?”_

 

 “I was told by this gentleman,” he motioned to the barkeep, “That purchasing one of these bottles would not only aid the museum but both myself and my husband would be added to the museum’s patron list for life.” The omnic behind them lifted the heavy case atop the bar, “So, I bought a case.”

 

“You bought a case.” Edward declared rather than questioned, wide eyes going blank as the bartender boxed up ten other flutes and piled it atop the liquor.

 

Now, McCree knew Hanzo was petty but _damn_.  He let a chuckle slide out as Hanzo took a sip of champagne to stifle his own laughter, “What can I say?  Money’s no object to my honeybee.”

 

“I…you…” Louise seemed at a loss for words.

 

Edward, on the other hand, found his rather quickly, “Barman.” He called to the omnic, “I would like to purchase one more bottle.”

 

If an omnic could look condescending, he imagined it would have an expression like the one previously plastered on Edward Gascoyne’s face, “Oh, I am terribly sorry sir.” The barkeep’s voice turned light, “But I am afraid we are all sold out.” He gave the box a gently tap, “This man has bought them all, I’m afraid.”

 

Mr. Gascoyne exhaled loudly and angrily through his nose, “I see.”

 

“We should be restocked tomorrow, however!” he added cheerily.

 

The aristocrat held up his hand, “That will not be necessary.” The bartender shrugged and went about his business while Edward cleared his throat, “If you will excuse us.” He held out his arm stiffly for his wife.

 

“But of course.” Hanzo nodded, smirk still plastered across his face.

 

“Nice talkin’ to y’all!” McCree called as they turned to leave.

 

Their targets sauntered away, but not before McCree slipped a bug into Mrs. Gascoyne’s rather large evening clutch.  The little bottle-cap type device could stay in there for the rest of the evening and, hopefully, go unnoticed.

 

He turned back to Hanzo, “Alright, I gotta say, that was probably the pettiest thing I have ever seen _anyone_ do, and Gabriel Reyes was my fuckin’ boss.” He chuckled, “That man’s middle name was petty.”

 

Hanzo, who was busy pouring the last of the champagne into their flutes, merely added, “Did I not say that I was well acquainted with infuriating the aristocracy?”

 

“By buying all’a this just so they couldn’t have any?” McCree asked.

 

“No.” the archer added, “Me buying all of it was so Ryuji and Joel’s names overtook theirs at the top of the donor list.” He shrugged, “The fact they could no longer procure any was merely a bonus.”

 

“Goddamn.” McCree let out a low whistle, “Remind me not t’piss you off if we ever go out for a drink.  Last thing I need is t’be stuck suckin’ down well drinks while yer next t’me sippin’ a bottle of _Macallan_.

 

Hanzo raised his glass for a toast, “You are correct in your assumption, _omae_.”

 

“Hear, hear.” McCree clinked his glass against Hanzo’s as they shot back the rest of their drinks.

 

 Hanzo turned back to face the omnic bartender, “Is there any way we could have this sent to our hotel?  Or make sure we are able to pick it up before we leave the venue?”

 

The omnic nods once, “Of course!” he leaned forward, head between the couple before him, “We’re not supposed to do this, but after that glorious stunt I’m sure my friend wouldn’t mind taking the long way home to drop this off as a courtesy.” He rapped the side of the case with his knuckles.

 

McCree smiled, “That’s mighty kind’s ya.”

 

“Our catering company has provided its services to the museum for these events for over a decade and every year, those two treat our staff horribly.” The bartender’s head turned to find them in the throng of other guests, “Last year, my coworker had an empty bottle thrown at him when he mispronounced their surname.  Not that it would have hurt him, but it’s the principle of the matter, you know?” he huffed a little, forcing his focus back to McCree and Hanzo as he took their empty flutes to wash and place with the rest in their little box.

 

“Sounds like they had it comin’.” The cowboy acknowledged.

 

“Indeed. Oh, and sir?” the omnic placed an electronic pen and data pad on the counter before Hanzo, “Would you mind signing this?  I did not want to interrupt earlier for obvious reasons.” He smiled as he slid it forward, “It was a pleasure serving you both this evening.”

 

“Of course.” Hanzo scrawled his alias across the line and added a large sum under the tip, “Please split the tip with your partner.  I can only assume that even though he served those two, they neglected that.”

 

The bartender stared at the receipt for a second then glanced back to Hanzo, “Are you sure?  There seems to be an extra zero or two here…”

 

Hanzo waved him off, “I am certain.  Consider it a personal thank you for dropping off our purchase.”

 

The omnic nodded in stunned silence, scurrying off to wait on a group of patrons who had meandered up to the bar.  Hanzo preened for a moment, obviously proud of himself.

 

McCree couldn’t help but ask, “So, just how much is on that card’a yours anyhow?”

 

“Decades worth of laundered and ill-gotten money courtesy of the Shimada Clan that has been stored in off-shore bank accounts all over the world.” Hanzo uttered low and matter-of-factly, “Every time I use it, I make sure it is on the most ridiculous things possible.  And I tip almost as much as I purchase.”

 

McCree couldn’t fathom how much money there actually was, but he understood Hanzo’s frivolity, “Makes sense, I guess.” The archer’s gaze fell to McCree, “What better fuck-you than spendin’ all that dirty money helpin’ other people?” He smiled.

 

Hanzo’s expression softened, “Yes.  It feels liberating.”

 

The gunslinger acknowledged him with a little hum as he made to stand, “Whelp, I don’t know ‘bout you, but that alcohol went right through me, sweet pea.” McCree professed as he held out his arm for Hanzo.

 

The latter caught on quickly, grasping onto McCree’s elbow as he stood, “I believe there are bathrooms this way.  Shall we?”

 

“Lead the way, honey.” McCree responded with a little smile.

 

The duo strolled casually toward the hallway, faking casual banter as they neared the entrance.  From what McCree could see at a glance, the restrooms were located on the right as soon as they turned the corner.  The office seemed to be a little farther down on the left.

 

Hanzo tugged him through the men’s room door.  It was pretty fancy for a public washroom; there was a tiny foyer with two chairs and a bowl of potpourri on a small end table.  A long row of shiny black stalls lined the left wall, the gleam from the overhead lights reflecting off the polished white and gold tile floor.  McCree bent at the waist to check for feet, but it was all clear.

 

The two ambled to the large mirror that hung above three glossy sink basins and began to “freshen up.”  Hanzo took off his glasses to pretend to clean them, “Do you have any way to get inside the office should it be locked?” he queried lowly after huffing a breath on the nonexistent lens of his glasses.

 

McCree pretended to smooth is shirt, “Pretty sure I still got that lock picking kit Hana got me fer Christmas last year stashed inside m’arm’s compartment.” He uttered in return.

 

“How fast can you pick a lock?”

 

“Never really timed it, if I can be honest.  Probably a minute, give or take.”

 

Hanzo extended his hand, “Leave it to me.  My record is twenty seconds.” He smirked.

 

McCree saw the opportunity and _carpe’d_ the fuck out of it, “Bragging about speed ain’t always the brightest idea, ya know.” He punctuated that with a wink and smile of his own as he retrieved the case from the built-in slide compartment atop his prosthetic.

 

Hanzo swiped the kit from McCree swiftly, “You are unbelievably crude.” Came his swift response but…

 

Was that a blush creeping across Hanzo’s cheeks?

 

The cowboy pushed his luck, “Just sayin’ that y’gotta take yet time with some things, honey.”

 

The archer rolled his eyes, “Shall I give this back to you, then?” he attempted to push the kit back into McCree’s palm.

 

“Naw, just messin’ with ya.” McCree chuckled.

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed; he was all about business at the moment, “Are you prepared?”

 

“You betcha.  Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?” the cowboy stated as he moved toward the door.

 

McCree pushed the door open and held it for Hanzo to follow.  The two of them paused to see if anyone would walk in the hallway anytime soon.  After a minute or two, the coast was as clear as it was probably going to get.  Hanzo crept around the little jut in the hallway to come upon a large, glossy mahogany door with a little electronic scanner above the knob.  He tried the handle.  It was, indeed, locked.

 

“Can y’get past the fingerprint recognition?” McCree queried.

 

“It may take some finessing but I should be able.” He pulled a pick from the set, “Keep watch, it will not take me long,”

 

McCree grunted in acknowledgement.  Hanzo took off his box framed glasses and slid them in his pocket.  Silence fell.  The cowboy took the time to take stock of his surroundings; there was a skylight window that stretched across a portion of the hallway.  Golden sunlight stretched across the wall down to the floor.  It was a nice touch, though poorly placed should someone with the skills Hanzo had decided to break and enter.

 

He almost opened his mouth to speak when he heard it.  Two, maybe three sets of footfalls, low murmurs of conversation, and the potential for their operation to be shut down before it even started.  He yanked Hanzo’s hand away from the lock.

 

“What are you do—” Hanzo had started to hiss out before McCree pushed into his space and clamped his hand over his partner’s mouth.

 

McCree dropped his hand from Hanzo’s face and brought the same finger to his lips. He mouthed, _“People.”_

 

The voices were getting closer.  McCree estimated they had about fifteen seconds or less to formulate a plan.

 

“Any thoughts on how to get out of this?” Hanzo queried up to the gunslinger as he slid McCre’s lock pick into his sleeve.

 

McCree looked down at Hanzo.  He was so close, _so fucking close_ , and he still felt lightyears away.  He stared at Hanzo’s lips for a second, knowing the archer had just said something.  It had gone in one ear and out the other as McCree’s brain churned out the only possible cover for being in a darkened hallway away from other partygoers.

 

“I…” McCree trailed off.

 

_“Say it, McCree.”_ Hanzo whispered the demand.

 

“Just this.” The taller man mumbled.

 

Before Hanzo could retort, McCree had already moved.  The cowboy spun the shorter man swiftly and bent down to close the distance between their lips.  Hanzo made a muffled sound against McCree’s mouth as his body went rigid, though McCree felt Hanzo’s hands slide up his chest to grapple the fabric of his buffalo plaid flannel.  McCree walked Hanzo back until he hit the wall.  They stood like that, mouths pressed together in chaste contact as the voices from around the corner drew closer.

 

McCree, however, was about to implode.

 

_“Fucking shit, what the hell did you just do Jesse McCree?”_ He panicked, _“Han’s never gonna talk t’me after this!”_ he shrieked internally.  He made to draw back but was immobilized by the two hands clutched into the collar of his shirt.

 

Hanzo’s body had relaxed against McCree’s.  The former’s mouth was simply pressed to his, top lip clinging unopened between McCree’s Cupid’s bow and lower lip.  Hanzo shifted slightly and moved to pull back just enough to whisper against McCree’s lips, “Can you see them?” he asked, eyes lidded and unfocused and _holy shit did they look beautiful in the lowlight_.

 

McCree’s gaze never left Hanzo’s as he rasped out, “Nope.”

 

“Understood.” The assassin uttered before capturing McCree's mouth like he would a bounty; swift, silent, and hungry.

 

Hanzo, clearly invested in the ruse, parted his mouth just enough to swipe his tongue against the seam of McCree’s lips.  McCree happily obliged him and turned his head to better slot their mouths together.  Hanzo pulled the cowboy flush with his chest and slipped a hand around the nape of his neck to lock him in place.  McCree had to choke back a moan as the archer’s tongue flicked over his and into his mouth.  The gunslinger’s sharp inhale definitely did not go unnoticed.

 

McCree, though his brain was practically short-circuiting, managed to think clearly enough to slide his flesh hand up his partner’s flank to his face.   McCree’s calloused thumb brushed along the line where Hanzo’s beard met his skin and the cowboy pulled him impossibly closer so he could twist his tongue into the archer’s mouth.  Hanzo tasted like exquisite champagne, a subtle hint of mint, and something McCree couldn’t quite put a finger on.  Something that was entirely Hanzo.

 

The voices were right on top of them now, had to be right around the corner if McCree had to guess, and truthfully?  He couldn’t give less of a fuck.  Here he was, tongue-tied with the man of his dreams all for the sake of a mission, and it was about to get ruined in the next five seconds.

 

Although, that’s exactly what it was.  It was only for the sake of the mission.  McCree forced himself to keep his composure, forced himself to keep kissing Hanzo, as his stomach dropped to the floor.

 

_“This ain’t real. You ain’t married. You ain’t even together.”_ McCree screamed at himself while keeping his mouth firmly against his partner’s.

 

But…the way Hanzo gently cradled the back of McCree’s head, brushed deft fingers through the tangles of the cowboy’s hair, and chased after the gunslinger’s mouth like he was _dying_ for it after dragging him back into a kiss, awoke the little voice in the back of McCree’s head, _“What if Hanzo really_ does _want the same thing you do?”_

 

McCree’s prosthetic hand found purchase on the small of Hanzo’s back.  He pulled the archer forward, Hanzo having to shove one leg between both of McCree’s to accommodate.  The archer pulled away a fraction, sucking McCree’s bottom lip into his mouth and releasing it with a _pop_ as he pulled away.

 

McCree shuddered, fingers roaming and splaying just far enough to brush at the very edge of Hanzo’s undercut.  He breathed out a whisper against the shorter man’s forehead, _“Goddamn.”_ McCree felt Hanzo’s analytic gaze bore straight through him.  He risked a glance down into the eyes of the assassin.  There was no way McCree could just walk away without saying something, not after this.  He swallowed rather audibly before uttering, “Hanzo, I—”

 

“—and they just donated _how_ much to the—” Dr. Hamell’s thunderous voice halted his speech as he, his wife, and Nikolas rounded the corner, “Ah, Joel, Ryuji!  We were just talking about you!” The curator’s eyes raked over them from feet to head; if ol’ Billy didn’t realize what he had walked into before, he certainly did now, “Are we uh…did we interrupt something?” he asked, cheeks ablaze.

 

Carmen giggled, “I believe we did, dear.”

 

McCree pulled himself off of his “husband” and scratched the back of his head, “Sorry, y’all.  Didn’t mean anythin’ by it.” He chuckled, “Ryu and I had a few drinks and well…I managed t’convince him t’come back here with me.” he gave a nervous chuckle, “Thought it’d be a might rude to do…well, what we were doin’ in public.” He glanced between the three of them, reveling in the absolutely invidious look Nikolas was giving him.  McCree couldn’t help the toothy smirk he shot the man as he shrugged.

 

Carmen waved it off, “You are both fine!  But we do have something to say.”

 

Hanzo, who had straightened himself out and donned his glasses in the meantime, responded, “Which is?”

 

Dr. Hamell brushed past his wife to embrace the both of them, “THANK YOU!”

 

“What for?” McCree grated out past the shoulder that was pressing against his windpipe.

 

“What do you mean _what for_?  Your donation, of course!” the curator pulled back just enough to look between the two of them. “Though we have done very well for the past few years, your contribution will allow us to bring many, _many_ new and exciting exhibits to the museum for years to come!” he grasped McCree’s hand and shook, then did the same to Hanzo.

 

The archer actually had to fix his faux frames Dr. Hamell had shaken him so hard, “It was our pleasure.”

 

“From the bottom of my heart, thank you!” the kind old curator stated again, “Now if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I must change some things in the speech I will give on the final evening.” He shook Hanzo’s and McCree’s hands one more before unlocking the fingerprint recognition lock with his thumb.  He shoved the heavy door open and slipped inside the office

 

Carmen added, eyes misty with emotion, “You are both honorary patrons of the LACMA.  We hope that after the weekend is over you remember to come back and visit!” and she followed her husband through the door.

 

Nikolas had stopped just in front of the duo to speak, “Your donation was quite steep.” He conceded, “Extremely so for someone on an artist’s salary.” His tone sounded incredulous, to say the least.

 

Hanzo was quick to respond, “Do you truly believe that I am merely an artist?”

 

“If you aren’t an artist, then what are you?” Marios quizzed as he stepped forward into Hanzo’s space.

 

McCree chuckled as Hanzo gravitated to his side to avoid the other man, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He slipped an arm around his partner’s waist and smirked.

 

Nikolas’s eyes darted between their faces.  He scoffed through his nose, “Yes, well, regardless, the museum appreciates your gracious donation.” He brushed past McCree, being sure to check the cowboy in the arm with his shoulder as he passed, “I assume I will see you tomorrow evening, yes?”

 

McCree answered flatly through grit teeth, “Yep.” He took a few steps forward with Hanzo following in stride.  He called over his shoulder, “See ya then, _pardner_.”

 

“Good evening Ryuji, _Joey_.” The financial advisor glared and stomped off into the office.

 

McCree couldn’t help but chuckle.  Hanzo jostled an elbow into his side, “ _Oof_ , aw, c’mon, that guys an asshole and y’know it!  He didn’t even get m’name right!” he retorted as he chuckled down at the archer.

 

His heart stopped for a second.

 

Hanzo was staring up at him with the softest expression he had ever seen the man wear in the short year he had known him.  He swallowed, “You okay, honey?” he asked as they turned the corner and entered the grand hall once more.

 

The archer seemed to snap out of it immediately, “Yes.” He replied, though a bit quick even for Hanzo.  He furrowed his brows and did that little thing with his lips he always did while biting back what he really wanted to say.

 

Now was as a good a time as ever, “Look, Han,” he lowered his voice an octave when he dropped Hanzo’s real name, “If this is about what happened back there, I…” McCree let the words die in his throat.  This was the last thing he wanted to discuss in a crowded room full of strangers.

 

The assassin, however, picked it back up, “It was quick thinking.” He stated, his eyes refusing to meet McCree’s for some reason, “Had we attempted the break-in any sooner we would have been compromised and the mission a failure.” He was finally able to look at the cowboy, “What I am trying to say,” he let the corners of his lips quirk ever so slightly, “Is that I am not upset with you.”

 

“Yer not?”

 

“No, quite the opposite, actually.” McCree’s heart skipped a beat as Hanzo slid the lock pick from its hiding place in his sleeve, “It was quite resourceful,” he slid the pick in McCree’s back pocket, pinching the last of the bugs from the same one.  McCree most certainly did _not_ think about the hand that had just brushed over his ass.  Hanzo twisted the little device between his index finger and thumb before pocketing it, “If anything, I was quite impressed.”

 

Impressed?

 

Huh.

 

It wasn’t exactly what McCree had been going for, but then again, it wasn’t bad either.  Maybe…maybe he _could_ say something to Hanzo about all of this.  Maybe before they traveled back to Gibraltar, before they left the mission behind and had to go back to reality. 

 

McCree filed that away for later as he let a smile sneak past the corner of his mouth, “Hey, if covert ops taught me anything, it’s that ninety-nice percent’a the time, people will either ignore or avoid two people makin’-out.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, “Sorry I couldn’t run that by ya beforehand.”

 

Hanzo actually chuckled at that, “I will be more prepared for next time, then.”

 

_“Next time?”_ McCree’s heart almost leapt out of his chest, “Yeah, uh, sure…next time.”

 

Hanzo didn’t seem to catch McCree’s mental breakdown as he glanced toward the ceiling, “Joel…” he clearly wanted his partner’s attention as he slowed to a halt in the middle of the walkway.

 

“Yeah, honey?” McCree also stopped and followed Hanzo’s gaze skyward.

 

“The hallway…it has a window like the ones up there, does it not?” Hanzo asked swiftly.

 

“Sure did, sweetheart.” In an instant, McCree knew where this was going, “Are y’thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

 

A glimmer of mischief sparkled in Hanzo’s eyes, “Winston did not say anything about searching the museum _after_ hours, did he?”

 

McCree couldn’t help but smile, “Nope, that he didn’t.”

 

“It is settled.” The archer snagged a little plate full of little _canapés_ and popped one in his mouth, leaning forward after swallowing, “We shall return late tonight to search the office.”

 

McCree plucked one of the _hors d’oeuvres_ off Hanzo’s plate and followed suit, “Darlin’, I like the way you think.”

 

The two strolled toward the exit behind many of the other museum-goers who were also leaving for the evening.  Something, however, had been bothering McCree for the past fifteen minutes.

 

Hanzo caught on immediately, “Is something wrong?”

 

McCree shook his head, “Not wrong, per say, it’s just…” he trailed off.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do I…” McCree trailed off, a look of insecurity growing across his face, “Do I _really_ look like a Joey?” he queried in Hanzo’s ear.

 

“Hmm…” The archer’s eyes raked down McCree’s frame then back up to his face, “You look as much like a Joey as I do a Henry.”

 

It took a second or two before it registered in McCree’s brain.  He barked out a laugh, one that Hanzo followed with a smile of his own.  “Good t’know, I was worried fer a sec.”

 

“There is no need to worry,” Hanzo insisted as he led them toward the exit, “If there is one thing I can assure you of, it is my brutal honesty.” He stated as he dropped the last of their bugs into one of the potted plants by the door.

 

“’Course,” McCree retorted as he looped his arm back around Hanzo’s waist, “How could I forget?” he chuckled as they wandered into the twilight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple notes for y’all real fast:
> 
> -Omae is kind of what people will call their husbands/boyfriends. Kimi can also be used, but it's less formal and more for men to call woman. They are both roughly translated to “you,” like how an American would say “Oh, you!” from what I was told by my Japanese speaking friend. Anata, from what I have come to understand from my friend, is an endearment for women. **The More You Know!** gif plays XD. 
> 
> -A tokkuri and choko are traditional items for drinking/serving sake. The tokkuri is the canter, the choko is the little cup! It is common for steakhouses and even some bars to have them, and you never pour for yourself first. McCree didn’t know that though, so Hanzo had no other choice.
> 
> -Canapé are little toasted bread or rolled hors d’oeuvres, commonly served as appetizers at fancy parties or weddings. I only know this because I used to make them when I worked in a banquet hall as a teenager at a fancy popular resort in my hometown and had 2-4 weddings a week that called for trays upon trays of these little things.
> 
> -If anything else confuses you, just let me know. I'll explain!
> 
> Also, I hope you guys liked the make-out scene I threw in here. Fake-out make-out is another one of my favorite tropes and, hey, if the situation calls for it, I’MMA FUCKIN’ USE IT. There’s just one question; how does Hanzo feel about the whole thing? Guess we’ll find out eventually >:D.
> 
> And props to anyone who knows what Fic I’m referencing (if you caught it)! Gotta pay homage where it’s due. It’s one of my all-time favorites and I LIVE for comedic banter XD!
> 
> Comments keep me goin’, y’all. Let me know how I’m doing either here or on my Tumblr :D

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom and the first one I've actively posted on any forum in a while now. I've been sitting on this for like 84 years. Between working 40 hours a week and going to grad school, I really haven't had the time to do anything with my life in the past two years.
> 
> I started writing this almost a year ago and it just kind of sat as an unfinished WIP, mostly because I didn't think anyone would want to read it. But now that I'm done with school I have muuuuuch more time, and have been encouraged by people to give it a go :D!
> 
> I'm the biggest sucker for tropes (y'all know what I'm taking about) so I meshed a few together in this SIMPLY BECAUSE I COULD. I'm aiming to keep this under 10 Chapters, but lord knows I'll probably overshoot that lmfaooo
> 
> So I hope y'all enjoy it! Let me know how I'm doing :D
> 
> I also have a tumblr that I check every so often if anyone is feeling frisky to drop by and say hi at ryugawagatekigofuckoff ( yeah, so original, right? XD)


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